


Lightning in a Bottle

by Bumocusal



Series: Lock, Stock, and Barrel [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Art, Attempt at Humor, Back Seat, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2019, Frottage, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Poetry, Prostitution, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17951138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumocusal/pseuds/Bumocusal
Summary: When he starts teaching at the district’s only School of Alternatives, Castiel Shurley is shocked to find Dean Winchester—the prostitute Balthazar tried to hire for him only a few weeks earlier.





	1. Agastopia

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I learned whilst writing this fic—I should really stick to Dean’s POV. Castiel is fucking hard to nail and I don’t know how anyone else does it (including Dean)! Jokes aside, I don’t know how to properly thank everyone I need to thank without getting sappy. But I’ll goddamn try:
> 
> Thank you [Oubielle-od](http://oubliette-od.tumblr.com/), my terrific artist that came in as a “pinch hitter” and knocked my expectations out of the park. I can’t believe how amazing her art is. I fangirled so hard when she showed me the first drafts. I could wax on for hours about her art, but I'll let her/it speak for itself: Please, go check out her [master art post](http://oubliette-od.tumblr.com/post/183112737708/here-is-my-art-for-the-deancas-pinfest-2019-fic).
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful betas! The DCPF community is so beautiful: they step up and beta-read each other's works and that’s incredibly magical. So first beta, (we connected over discord but I lost your username) this one’s for you. Message me back if you want me to credit you! And thank you, [Leo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isangelousdenim), for always having my back and reading everything I write first so it's not total trash.
> 
> Thank you mods, seriously. They were so accommodating to me, even though I was definitely a horrible planner and procrastinator. They were helpful and always emailed back/answered my difficult questions on discord. And they pulled this kick-ass fest off! Thank you, Mittens and Cass!
> 
> I think I did that as painlessly as possible.
> 
> Read the endnotes for spoiler-y type warnings that I didn’t put in the tags:
> 
> Now, go ahead and read the story!

"You're applying for our open teaching position," The principal says. "Why?"

"That's a good question." Castiel laughs awkwardly, not making eye contact.

The principal nods, pen tapping on the desk, "That's why I asked it."

Castiel had a normal, good, middle-class upbringing. He was born into a happily married couple, Chuck and Becky Shurley. Becky had been forty-two when she'd had Castiel, constantly saying he was a miracle from God—he'll explain that one in a moment. They lived in rural Illinois on the outskirts of a college city, meaning the most they had to worry about was the traffic when the college kids came back from vacation.

Before Castiel was born, his parents moved around a lot; Chuck worked a lot of odd jobs that had them relocating every couple of months. As soon as they realized Becky was pregnant, the two decided to settle down. They bought a piece of land right next to Becky's parents and built their home. Chuck became a freelance writer. The hours were still crazy, but that was more thanks to his father's own neurosis and desire to be published. Chuck rarely saw Castiel for the first couple years of his life.

When Becky had found out she was pregnant, after fifteen years of marriage, she turned into a Christian. Apparently, as the story’s told—and he's heard it his whole fucking life, so he should know—Becky had been trying to get pregnant for years. The two had tried every method, every pregnancy pill, and silly spiritual mumbo-jumbo on the block. Nothing had worked.

One Easter though, after being dragged to church by Becky's parents, Chuck had seemingly shared their troubles with the pastor. This pastor had listened to their conceiving problems and simply nodded. He'd grabbed Chuck’s hands and said, "You say you've tried every option available? How about prayer, son?"

And Chuck had responded accordingly, they had not tried to pray. The couple wasn't even that religious at the time, they only attended services every now and then to appease Becky’s parents.

When he told Becky about the pastor’s advice, exclaiming that it was worth a shot, she laughed, claiming the pastor was full of bullshit. But eventually, she cracked after another infertile month had gone by. She even spouted out a throwaway, "If this works, I say we start believing in God."

Chuck had chucked at the joke but nodded, "If this works, I'll become a preacher myself."

To cut a long story short, it worked. Not even a week later did they find out Becky was a month pregnant. Castiel had been forced to listen to this story all his life, believing less and less over time. When he was thirteen he finally blew up, shouting right into his mother’s stunned face, it was just happenstance and there was no correlation between their begging to an imaginary deity and his conception. Becky had bawled, screaming back at Castiel, declaring that he wasn’t her son anymore. Religion was a sore topic in their home after that, Castiel scoffing anytime it was brought up or he was obligated to attend his father’s sermons.

His entire life was like this, being secular yet trying to fit into his parent's pious standards.

So why was he applying for the teaching job? Going to a community college on his parent's money had been a necessary downside, they faithfully chose what his major would be and held the money over his head like ransom. It wasn’t actually as clear-cut as that since they did it affectionately. Even so, it made him feel powerless. This was his first chance to live on his own, experience life without the relentless restrictions and the disapproving gaze of Chuck and Becky.

Honestly, Castiel hasn't always wanted to be in education. But it made the most sense with his useless degree that he didn’t want to apply anywhere else—why would he ever want to be a writer or a journalist when the worst part of college was essay writing? If he had a dime for the number of times he’s googled “what can you do with an English degree” he’d have enough money to pay back his parents. He can’t tell the principle that, of course.

“I want to help shape a generation of children, see that I’m influencing the future of our nation and hopefully witness greatness grow in my pupils.” Castiel articulates smoothly, keeping concrete eye contact. The principal nods, possibly impressed, violently scrawling on their yellow notepad. Castiel continues, “It would be amazingly satisfying to see these young people develop from the beginning to the end of the year.”

“All your qualifications look terrific,” The principal allows, clicking the pen rapidly. Sweat accumulates on Castiel's brow, here comes the million dollar question. “In fact, your credentials are so blinding I’m wondering why you’d want to work at this particular school in the first place. This isn’t your regular high school, Mr. Shurley. This is the districts only school of alternatives, we take in numerous students who either get in fights or have substance abuse problems. You’re fresh out of college, why do you want to work here?”

“As I said—” Castiel begins, getting distracted by movement out the window. A bunch of children ran around aimlessly and climbed on the rickety playground, must be the summer program children, he felt his heart clench. “—I just want to help children, troubled or not. If my lessons can place these children on a moral path, then I’ll teach until I’m unable to.”

At least that part was true. Castiel liked children. Since he was an only child, he hasn’t had much experience taking care of them. But he's babysat his younger cousins enough to know that it wouldn't be the worst option. Besides, this place—a school for troubled teens—it is the easiest school to get hired into and pays pretty good for first-time teachers. Castiel's applied to every school this side of Illinois and he's sure, even with his so-called binding credentials, he's not going to get into any of them. The job market isn't the best right now. But apparently, people still would rather be jobless than work at a school for alternatives. Their loss, Castiel’s gain.

The principal scribbles abrasively for a second time, not bothering to look up. “All right, Mr. Shurley. I’ll call you in the next two to four business days to give you my answer. You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Castiel stands, bowing respectfully and leaving the room.

The halls are barren, dead with no new life during the summer months. It’s hard to imagine that in just three weeks, this place will be bursting with schoolchildren. He takes his time walking around the corners, familiarizing himself with the too small hallways and crammed lockers. The place has a cozy charm to it, quite obviously underfunded but still well taken care of by the staff. The school is one story, compiled of pods and hallways connecting them. The cafeteria is the only square building, resting at the center of the honeycomb.

He eventually wanders past the classroom he might teach in, room 247 with a festering yellow tinge to the door. He peeks inside the little window, smiling sympathetically at the crookedly placed desks and unclean tables. With any luck, he’ll get the job, or at least a janitor position to clean up that mess.

Outside the air is muggy and squelching, sun pelting onto him like a laser beam. Walking towards Meg’s car, Castiel jumps into shotgun with an impassive expression on his face. She looks at him impatiently, hair pulled into a constricting twist on the top of her head. When he stays quiet, she groans irritably and prods him hard enough to leave a bruise on his shoulder.

“How’d it go, Clarence?”

“I’ll know sometime this week.” He shrugs, slouching into the seat and ignoring her glower.

She pokes him again, harder. “Yes, yes. But how do you think it went?”

Rubbing the sore spot, he glares at her, “Stop it, you’re being annoying. It was good, probably the best interview yet. There, are you happy?”

She breaks out into a grin. “I’m elated. Maybe now you can move out of my closet.”

He exhales, secretly happy as well, clicking his seatbelt in as she shifts the stick into drive.

Looking back at the school, he feels unusually intimidated. As adorable as the inside of the school had been, the curb appeal lacks every bit of interest and enticement he had been fond of. A tall, impenetrable barbed wire fence surrounded the entire property. An iron gateway stood resolutely at the front with a guard checking ID’s, making sure no one got in or left without authorization. For the first time, Castiel allows himself to feel uneasy about his applying to this school. It really does feel like a prison, there was no ignoring that. But still, he needs the job.

As the trees blur by, Castiel crosses his two fingers. If nothing else, he wishes he could live somewhere with privacy. Meg has been the most welcoming host, letting him crash in her dinky apartment for the past month as he tries to find a job. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it, but the longer he stays there the more often he wants to wring her neck.

Moving out of his parent's house had been daunting yet alleviating. Being free to express himself and show his true colors is liberating, no doubt. Becky and Chuck were obviously confused, upset that he was moving in with a woman out of marriage. When Castiel explained how it was simply a roommate situation and nothing carnal, they both lamented how the community would see it differently. Chuck was in a position of power, being the pastor of the only church in their small neighborhood, and he wanted his family to practice what he preached.

This was a running problem in their family, Castiel being a bad reflection on his father.

His ringing phone disturbs his daydreaming, startling him enough to jump. Meg cackles loudly, shaking her head and whispering about how he is such a goofball. Rolling his eyes, Castiel digs his cell out from the middle console, cringing at the caller ID and tossing the phone back into the crevice. After the phone quits chiming, which takes an awkward forty seconds, Meg sends him a curious frown.

“Who are you ignoring?” She asks, pulling onto their street.

The cul-de-sac is not very extensive, lined with about ten houses on each side of the street.

Castiel shoots her a significant look. “Who else but my wonderful parents.”

“Ah, right.” She nods, accepting.

And like an unspoken agreement, Meg didn’t question further. She grew up with Castiel—has been his friend since they were both gawky awkward teens. The word parent is almost synonymous to “stop talking” at this point.

That’s actually how they met: Meg sticking her glue filled hands in Castiel’s hair and claiming all men were evil. Castiel had cried first, his hair an unfixable gooey mess, but eventually made it his duty to explain that not all men were like Meg’s father. They tentatively became friends between Castiel inviting her to Sunday school and Meg teaching him curse words under the bleachers. Then they became best friends when Dick Roman slept with Meg and dumped her in front of the whole school. Castiel walked right up to him in the lunchroom and punched him in the neck.

Parking in the driveway, shared by two cars and a lawnmower, they step onto the loose gravel and make their way to the steps.

Meg’s apartment is an old ladies basement. she rented out after her husband died and charged a pretty good price, considering they all lived in a college town. Walking down the falling apart steps and unlocking the basement door, they walk over to her ajar apartment door.

The basement is separated into three sections: the canning room, the miscellaneous shit area, and Meg’s apartment. When you step in, it’s an open space into the miscellaneous shit area with two doors leading to the other subdivisions. The canning room is to the left, full of canned fruit and vegetables from decades passed. The miscellaneous shit area has tools and other stuff from the old lady’s deceased husband. The apartment has one bedroom in the back, a bathroom, and a tiny ass kitchen. The living room is basically non-existent since the couch eats the entire space. But Castiel sleeps on that couch, so he can’t complain.

Meg has a puckered brow, “Who's in my apartment?”

Castiel pushes open the door, exposing the intruder who is sitting on the carpet with a blunt in his hand.

Balthazar had been an addition to their rag town group in community college. He had come to the States on an overseas tuition-free schooling program, joining them in high school but never talking to them until college. They found out that his visa expired after high school but he didn’t go back. (And no deportation officer had come after him even though he was technically an illegal immigrant. Castiel suspected it had to do with him not being their target demographic.) Apparently, going back to England was a one way trip to being under his parent’s thumb again. Meg had looked at Balthazar as if he had been crazy—saying that they should just get married so he could get his green card and citizenship faster. Three years later and the man was an official US citizen. As far as Castiel knew they still hadn’t gotten their annulment. Meg used the same excuse every time it was brought up: taxes were easier.

“Zar, why did you break into my—”

“My dove,” Balthazar interjects, “I thought what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.”

Meg snorts. “Yes, that’s why Clarence and I haven’t seen your sorry ass in weeks.”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to be confined to your horrid flat,” Balthazar quips, blowing smoke directly towards the smoke detector. “I might’ve been trying to make something of myself. Like Cassie here, trying to be a school teacher. How’s that working out?”

The apartment isn’t attractive looking, Castiel can admit that. There is no flooring, just painted over conceit and an obnoxious burgundy rug, with dog hair matted into it, that Castiel gave  Meg as a housewarming gift. The kitchen countertop is peeling off, showing that it isn’t real granite. The couch is an ugly lemon color that doesn’t match anything else in the room. The refrigerator leaks and looks like it is stuck in the 80s with awkward chrome and an ugly beige hue. The smallness doesn’t help, cramping everything together in little clusters like a hoarder’s house. Even though they didn’t own much stuff, it still looks packed.

“It’s, uh, good.” Castiel imparts shyly, “I did an interview today and it was okay.”

Grinning broadly, “Good on you, Casanova. I always knew you’d be the best of us.”

Meg rolls her eyes, locking the door behind her and stomping over to slump next to him. She tales the joint and sucks harshly on it, coughing and pulling it sharply away from her face. Smoky haze billows up in the tiny room: the three of them all that remains in its musty wake. Castiel shifts uncomfortably by the door before going over to open the windows and sit on the couch.

“You know I have a job, right?” Meg asks, passing the blunt to Castiel with nimble fingers.

Castiel takes it and immediately passes it to Balthazar, the smell already sticking to the furniture and their clothes. It’s not that he’s against pot, but there are just somethings he can’t imagine himself doing—getting high is one of them. Castiel, over the years, has found out that he has an addictive personality. He gets hooked on things quickly and often becomes dependent without mercy. He can’t imagine himself ever doing drugs because of this. Besides, if he gets a call back from this teaching position, he’ll be required to pass a drug test. No way he’s screwing with that.

Balthazar laughs, taking a hit and staring at the smoke detector in curiosity. “But Cassie is getting a career, totally different than you working at an Adam and Eves the next town over. He’s going to be a reputable member of this community, his parents will finally accept him. They’ll stop hassling him about blending in and maybe notice that he’s totally queer.”

“I’m not—” Castiel cuts himself off, red-faced. “I’m not that.”

“Don’t tease him,” Meg smacks his shoulder, warning. “Clarence isn’t open to that like we are. He was raised differently.”

Shrugging, Balthazar gestures up at the smoke detector. “How has that thing not gone off yet?”

“I unplugged it when the angel started burning candles,” Meg breaths in smoke, holding it in her lungs and exhaling gradually. It makes her cough all over again, more unforgiving this time. Like she’s about to cough all of her insides. Laughing still, Meg wipes the tears that have sprung to her bloodshot eyes. “That old bitch upstairs really had an issue with those candles. Apparently, it was going up through the vents and making her carpet reek.”

Castiel remembers that—burning the zesty orange candle his mother had given him for his birthday. The old lady had gotten a broom and started thumping her floor, their ceiling, rapidly as if something had happened to her. Castiel obviously had thought the worst, running up to her door and opening it to her unamused face. She yelled at him for half an hour, until Meg came up, and then yelled at Meg too.

Safe to say they don’t burn anything in the apartment anymore.

Until now at least, with Balthazar’s pot smelling like burnt popcorn and burnt rubber and burnt skunk and really anything burnt. Coating every inch of the apartment and absorbing into the ceiling with permanence.   

“Cassie burns candles,” Balthazar says tickled. “Are you positive he isn’t gay?”

“He went out with some girl a month or so ago,” Meg is visibly high now.

Castiel shakes his head, self-conscious, “Hannah ended up canceling our date.”

“Oh yeah! I scared the little flower off,” Meg giggles obnoxiously, proud of her horrible manners. Hannah had come to their door with flowers and sweets and Meg answered with a whip and stilettos. Apparently, the conversation lasted thirty seconds before Hannah ran away in tears. “I asked her what her intentions were for our dear Clarence. Poor little flower nearly had a heart attack. She was really religious and super devote to Jesus. Your mom set you up, right?”

Some people have dads who clean their shotguns when their daughter's date comes to pick them up: Castiel has Meg, all five feet and two inches of her—and an added six since she was in heels. And Meg is unquestionably tough, even in the worst-case scenario. Unlike some, who are always the victims and let everything get to them, Meg tries to hold onto her position of power. He can only imagine poor Hannah’s expression when Meg had greeted her at the door, maybe repulsed by the fact that Castiel was living with a woman out of marriage.

“Yes and that’s probably what she was calling me about today. I embarrassed her and made a fool of my dad,” Castiel doesn’t even want to know the horrible gossip that’s going around at his father’s church. Nasty rumors about him living with Meg and not going out with Hannah. His stomach is in knots at the thought.

“So if your date was a right mess, did you at least go out afterward and hook up with someone?” Balthazar scratches his stomach lazily. “The best way to get over bad dates is shagging a stranger.”

“No,” Castiel mutters.

Shaking his head, Balthazar carps on, “How long has it been now? At least two years, yeah?”

“Eighteen months,” Meg answers for him, ducking when he throws a pillow at her. “Hey! It’s not my fault you have no sex life.”

“I’d rather not advertise that,” Castiel mumbles, snatching the cushion back and hugging it against his body. Both their eyes singling in on him, he shifts uneasily on the couch. “And it’s uncomfortable to know you both keep tabs on when I, uh—sleep with someone.”

Meg leans towards him and squeezes his knee, “It means we care about you. Besides, it’s not like you lack hedonism. You have to masturbate just to keep the pipes clean.”

His ears burn, hissing, “Don’t say that word.”

“What? Masturbate?” Meg giggles a little, finishing off the joint. “Wow, you’re such a prude. I thought hanging with me erased some of that holier-than-thou bullshit. I guess you’re still a little altar boy in heart.”

Balthazar scoffs, “No. I refuse to believe it. He’s not some delicate flower. Castiel is just having a dry spell. And I can help with that."

"What am I, your pet project?" Castiel runs his hand over his mouth, irritated. "How are you even going to help?"

Vaguely somber, he replies, "My new job comes with the territory.”

“So you didn’t run off to the casino and gamble away what’s left in your bank account?” Meg’s voice is full of scorn.  

“When I said I was trying to make something of myself earlier, that’s not exactly true. I already did and it’s not pretty,” Balthazar actually seems withdrawn, rubbing the back of his neck. “I work on Lexington if that’s any clue, I’m not spelling it out. But for Casanova here, I'm thinking about setting him up with someone who's got all kinds of tricks up their sleeves, who's used to particular situations.”

Both of them remain quiet, absorbing the new information. Balthazar was working on a street known primarily as the red light district. At his father's church they would use its name as a scare tactic in Sunday school —” If you didn't learn his word, study the good book, and be a devout Christian, you’ll end up on Lexington”—drugs, sex, and violence were all that was found there. Castiel always heard it's name mentioned on the news, some hookers body was found stuffed into a garbage can or a crack house that was making drugs laced with roofies was busted for selling to college students. Lexington had a bad reputation, for good reason. And Balthazar was working there.

"You want to buy Castiel—tree topper Castiel, a goddamn hooker?" Meg is astonished.

"A male hooker, to boot," Balthazar continues, "A man is so much more familiar with the manual. If you catch my drift."

Castiel grimaces self-deprecatingly. "No thank you, Zar, although I appreciate the gesture. I think."

Meg actually looks thoughtful, "Hold up, Clarence. I think this might be a great opportunity to experiment."

"Experiment." The word feels weird in his mouth, daunting yet exciting. He runs a hand through his hair and tosses the pillow he’s clinging to onto the floor beside him, frustrated at Balthazar and Meg but also himself for even considering this mess. "I'm not in college anymore. And I'd rather not get caught with a prostitute. It's illegal and I can't have any crimes on my record if I want this teaching job."

"No one would ever find out," Balthazar says confidently.

"Okay, say that's true," Castiel allows, "I'm very much against sex work, it's unethical. It is akin to human trafficking and often involves coercion."

"Anything done between two consenting adults is more than fine, Cassie. All of the hookers I know are grown, mature, men and women. You're usually liberal about these things," Balthazar says defensively, reminding Castiel of his friend's own involvement in the matter. "Your problem isn't with the sex work, is it? How about you admit it's because I'm suggesting a male hooker."

Castiel is not in the right state of mind to be having this talk. "Fine, okay. I'm not at ease with the idea of being intimate with a man."

"Nobody knows your body better than another man," Balthazar explains sincerely. Only then does Castiel realize how truly Balthazar believes all the bullshit he's spewing. Castiel wonders, bitterly, if Balthazar would be trying to convince him to explore with a woman if he were gay? How far does this insanity go? "When you’re in bed with someone of the same sex, it is like looking at a diagram of yourself. And because you know what turns you on, then you know it will turn them on, too. You'll be hiring him for a service. A very special service. He'll be your little dip into the other side, then everything will go back to normal. We'll never talk about it again and it'll be like it never happened."

Meg purses her lips, "If you could have a one-time venture into the unknown, where no one would find out, why wouldn’t you?"

He's weak, that's why he's actually contemplating this.

Castiel raises his voice to drown out the shakiness, "Because, Meg, I'm not interested."

"What have you got to lose?"

"Myself," He says, resting his head in his palms.

Meg stands up, towering over him with an exasperated expression on her features. He cowers instinctively as she wags her finger in his face.

"Castiel Shurley, you are at a time in your life where you have more freedom than you've ever had. Your parents and their wacko-church aren't looking over your shoulder every second. It should be liberation! Instead, you waste your time away on my couch: groveling in self-pity. Your sexual identity is up to you to determine and you should be determining the fuck out of it right now. If you don't like it, fine. At least you know. But in sixty years, when you're lonely-ass is wasting away in a nursing home, you'll ask yourself the infamous what if. What if you experimented in your twenties, how would you view sexuality differently? So instead of allowing yourself to ask that question, take Zar's offer and let a guy suck the fuck out of your dick."

Castiel’s jaw drops. "But—"

She groans derisively, "Stop, Castiel. If you don't want to, we can't force you. Sorry, Zar."

"I didn't get my hope up," Balthazar pulls out a small piece of paper and slams it on the coffee table, "If you change your mind, call this number and ask for Ted Nugent. Tell him that B will pay him back."

"Ted Nugent?" That doesn't sound like a sexy name.

"It's an alias, Cassie. They give you their real name when you pay 'em, " Balthazar reveals, glancing at the clock in the kitchen and cursing. "I gotta go."

"What?" Castiel frowned, guilty even though he's done nothing wrong. Was Balthazar that hurt he didn't accept his offer?

Balthazar stands up, straightening out his shirt and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. He leans into Meg, kissing her fully on the mouth. They've never done that in front of him before, so he awkwardly averts his eyes. Balthazar pulls away with a smack, waving without enthusiasm over his shoulder as he pauses at the door, hand on the knob, "I've got a shift in an hour, better start walking now if I want to make it to Lexington on time."

"I'll drive you," Meg says, holding her keys in her hand. They grin at each other and abruptly Castiel is the third wheel. "We'll be back later."

They slam the door on their way out and then he's alone. Left with his thoughts and a slip of paper.

The digits, written in a blocky red ink, taunt him with each passing second. They dance on the paper, begging him to call and be adventurous. He has spent all his life playing it safe in his small town and never glancing into the world beyond, where the possibilities were endless and exciting. He pretends that moving out of his parent's house released him, but he still lives by their expectations. He will never do drugs, kiss a man, or burn a bible. It feels wrong to even consider these things, like his parents automatically know and judge him. But now, with the opportunities open, he feels weightless.

Experimentation: such a simple concept, but it feels terrifyingly immense.

The last time he "experimented" he almost ruined everything.

When he turned eighteen, not as exciting of a milestone as one might think, he did absolutely nothing. Growing up in a religious, conservative, and republican home, his life had been extremely sheltered. High School wasn’t the typical shit storm it was for other teenagers, he was porcelain and innocent. His virginity was intact throughout the four years, the closest he had gotten to alcohol was sipping a little bit of wine during communion. The only bit of rebellion he had was Meg, who wore all black and shaved the side of her head.

Living in this era, most children grew up hearing the same thing spouted at you from every adult in your life. Don’t smoke cigarettes. It’s a simple message, one proven by hundreds of scientific studies—the smoke inhalation can cause cancer. This generation may be one of the first to call people who smoke idiots, not the cool rebellious kid that hang out behind the school and ride motorcycles with leather jackets. And Castiel, as someone who has never had freedom, had no idea what to do with his newly granted ability to be an adult. His parents had still treated him like he was their little angel miracle baby, how was he supposed to act? So he had options, what could be the first “adult” thing he did? Buying a pack of cigarettes sounded the least intimidating, even with all the social pressure and judging looks he knew he would get.

He waiting until he had enough money to buy the wretched things. It took about two weeks since he didn't have a job yet, with deliberate saving. Then the problem of asking if he could borrow the car. He had to go about this in a discrete way. How could he go out without explaining his purpose? Community college had been right around the corner, Meg had just bought her car, it seemed like fate.

Meg had narrowed her eyes suspiciously when he expressed his want to go into town and get some smokes at the local Gas-N-sip, but she still turned the ignition and drove them there. Meg was always on his side, no matter how stupid, goody-goody or anything in-between his plan was. They left his house, telling his parents that they needed to go to school and pick up their books for the new semester. They had no reason not to believe him and gave him a pat on his back on the way out, Castiel felt relieved and weirdly sinful. He walked into the store, paid for Meg's gas and picked up a pack.

He hadn't really known what to get, thus he asked the cashier what she recommended. She gave him a lecture, said he shouldn't start, but then suggested her favorite. Marlboro 27s. He got a pink lighter too, the last color they had for the disposables. Meg greeted him outside, leaning against her car as the gas pumped through the nozzle, eyeing the pack in distressed-interest. Meg father had been a smoker, and she had burn scars on her body to prove it. But that was her only hesitation, she hadn't tried to deter him once and that felt more adult than anything in his life.

They left the car in the lot, walking a few blocks to the college. There was a bridge right next to it.

Under that bridge, Castiel had his first smoke.

He had inhaled slowly, smoke filling his throat and lungs, making him wheeze and cough until he could breathe again. Tears filled his eyes at the burn. It was like hot coal fire being poured into his body by a funnel, radically cooking him from the inside and ruining him. Choking on the smoke, he instantly knew why it killed people. The smell was so bad, it penetrated his nose with durability and clung to all of his body. His clothes, fingers, and hair. He'd never forget the smell. The taste was easy to explain: just lick an ashtray. And despite all the horrible sensations, the lightheaded sensation that came soon after was pure pleasure.

Castiel had an addictive personality, and this was how he found out. The lightheaded feeling the nicotine gave him was the sheerest form of satisfaction he had ever experienced. He was instantly addicted. He smoked daily for almost his entire college career, upping his tolerance as the days passed. Soon he would go through a single pack in a week. It wasn't until he was broke and living with Meg, that he had been forced to go cold turkey.

The withdrawal was a bitch: headaches, insomnia, and vomiting. That was when he realized he had a problem. But realizing you have a problem and quitting are two different things. He only stopped when Meg's dad died.

The ass-butt had called her randomly, right before they were set to graduate, and said, "Bad news, Megan. I have cancer."

She laughed into the receiver, "Too bad. I wanted to be the one that killed you. Nice and slow, like pulling the wings off of an insect."

Meg had been abused by her father as a child—physically, mentally, and sexually. When Castiel had first met her in elementary school, Meg and her older brother were seriously malnourished. Meg and Tom both had pasty white skin, dark circles under their eyes, and were hollow looking.

Castiel didn't know it was abuse until Meg had shown him the bruises and scars. Scars that were protruding from the surface and a shade lighter than her skin color, littering the right side of her torso all the way up to her collarbone. They were more clustered around her breasts. The bruising was scary too, her dad had been careful not to leave them where they would show.

Castiel remembers like it was yesterday, Meg yanking down her collar and revealed the dark purple discolorations embracing her neck. Her father had held her down the night before, hand around her throat, as he sexually assaulted her.

Meg's father, Azazel, had a tumor in his left kidney from smoking and Castiel wouldn't die like that ass-butt.

He hadn't smoked since. Still, when he thinks of cigarettes, like right now, for example, he gets a tingling in his throat. He can feel the hot exhilarating impression of pulling the tobacco into his body, experiencing the fever in his lungs and the high that follows. The glorious effects of nicotine. The want makes his brain prickle in unquenchable appetite. It's terrible. But then he remembers that cigarettes took away the control he had over his life and he will never give that away again.

So experimenting is daunting, especially since he doesn't know if prostitution would be a gateway to other things. But then the number dances seductively on the paper. Crimping up and giving him an expectant appearance.

He bites his lip indecisively and tries to talk himself out of it. He needs a mental list on why he shouldn’t do this: There are many innocent victims tempted into selling themselves because of homelessness, being uneducated, and poverty. It is exploitative and dangerous and he shouldn't support such a degrading practice.

On the other hand, during the time Castiel lived with his conservative parents, he constantly heard about what one should and shouldn't do with their bodies. And that has made him adopt the idea to let people do as they wish as long as it's consensual.

So, with that out of the way, the only real issue is the illegality of it.

There is a room upstairs where the old lady lives, her walk-in closet that's filled to the brim with clothes and Christmas decorations from the 60s, and it's not up to code. It's a fire hazard, all those clothes piled on other clothes with dust building up. Castiel lives in an apartment in the same building as a room that's, essentially, illegal. This house outlasted the others from its time because it's made of concrete, the floors and walls are totally solid with the stuff. The windows are small, not big enough for him or Meg to escape through if there was a fire. He thinks about a home inspector coming into Meg's apartment today and declaring the place unlivable. It's basically a concrete tomb where the owner's husbands belongings are buried, and any tenant if a fire started. So maybe it's not insane to consider another crime to add to the one he's living in.

But is prostitution really comparable to a house not being up to code?

He picks up the paper and clenches it in his palm, wincing at the abrasive crinkling in the pin-drop quiet room. Smoothing it precisely, no wrinkles to be seen, he studies each number and the possibility of the school finding out if he goes through with this.

Should his normally constant morals break just because he's horny?

It has been eighteen months since he's had sex, just like Meg mentioned.

It was with Daphne Allen, a wispy flower of a girl with waist length brownish hair and glimmering green eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. They'd met on Easter at his father's church, her pink polish matched her ankle reaching dress and pointed toe heels. Her neck was long like a giraffe and her body was so scrawny it almost swam in her clothes. She had stood on the stage and sung about Jesus redeeming her, staring at Castiel the entire time. He'd tried to duck out of her grip, but his parents had been elated to see them together. The next few weeks were a dreadful affair of taking Daphne to Wednesday services at the church and getting sucked off in the back of Meg's car. She used her teeth and Castiel had to push her off multiple times as she seemed unaware that eating a dick was an expression.

He'd broken it off with her when she, wholly convinced, said, "I love you."

They'd only been seeing each other for the two weeks and Castiel hadn't known what to say other than, "I don't. Love you, that is."

Since then, he’s been celibate. It's been eighteen increasingly horrible months full of inconvenient mastabatory incidents. This dry spell is making him desperate. That's the only explanation as to why he's considering hiring a prostitute. He has developed an unfortunate hunger for human contact. Intimate contact, to be more specific. He idly wonders if the man behind the number is independent or if there's a pimp involved. He didn't want to talk to some scumbag that held money over a poor prostitutes head. Struggling with himself, he reaches for the landline and shutters his fingers over the see-through buttons.

With the paper in his left hand and the phone in his right, he impulsively dials the number.

It rings intimidatingly three times before someone picks up. "Yes?"

Chaos explodes in his mind, the voice was so smooth and golden pressed close to his ear. It is like the man, Ted or whatever, has his lips right against the side of Castiel’s head and is whispering to him like some unknown lover. His skin is ablaze just from the voice. He lets out a shaky breath, thudding his head back against the couch and gripping the phone like it’s his salvation. The man's voice was so eloquent and distinctively not feminine that it sends a shiver of guilty arousal through him.

"Hello? Hello? I can hear you breathing." The warm tone is gone, replaced with annoyance. It’s still beautiful, breathy but strong.

Clearing his throat, he croaks out, "Is, uh, Ted there?"

"This is Ted," The man replies, like a light switch turning sultry again. "And who are you?"

"I—oh." He didn't think of a fake name before calling. Uncertainty encompasses him. "I have to go."

Hot chuckles against his ear, "Really? You just called, are you sure?"

"Yes, this was a bad idea," He mutters half to himself, half to the sex-god on the other line—about to press the end button. "Sorry for wasting your time."

"Sunshine, a voice like yours is enough payment," Castiel can almost hear the smirk on his face. "So deep and sexy. It's a shame you're hanging up."

The coquetry has its desired effect, Castiel bites his tongue painfully to keep from groaning. He didn't know if the man is trying to make him pass out, but that is exactly what's about to happen. Every color becomes all the more vivid and stunning as he listens to a man tease with him. He's never felt this way before, getting so worked up from just a voice saying lewd things to him. Daphne never made him feel like this. Is this what Balthazar meant when he said men understood the manual better? Castiel has clearly been missing out.

"I’m, um—god, I can't—" Castiel stammers out. It's a miracle he can even form words.

"Shy are you? Don't be," Ted says confidently, "I bet you're just as hot as your voice. Am I right?"

Audibly swallowing, Castiel succeeds in returning, "I don't know."

"How about we meet up and so I can decide for myself."

The man seems indifferent to Castiel's gaucherie, remaining husky and fearless. Castiel appreciates that. This hooker probably gets paid a lot of money. Would Castiel really want to meet up with him, though? The sentiment makes his stomach jolt: this voice is attached to a person. What does Ted look like? What does Balthazar think he'd be attracted to in a man? A pretty man, surely. As close to Castiel’s preferences as possible. As close to feminine as he possible. Full lips, slender features, wide eyes. The man wrapping his plush mouth around Castiel's—

He almost drops the phone.

"Yes," He agrees, another spur-of-the-moment decision. "Where?"

"I usually make house calls but we can get a motel if that’s more comfortable."

Meg and Balthazar will be gone for an hour and Castiel can't afford a room—Housecall it is. But does he really feel comfortable giving his address to a stranger? Balthazar seems to trust him with Castiel's genitals, so Ted can't be completely crazy. He only hesitates a few seconds before revealing his location. Hopefully, they won't get robbed. Or murdered. He continues anxiously, "Go down the stairs on the right and you'll find my apartment. Is that alright?"

"I'll be there in fifteen." That implies Ted either has a car or he is already close by. "But first, how much are you prepared to spend? I wanna know if I should bring lube."

Castiel pinches his bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb, suddenly worried. "I'm supposed to tell you that B will pay you back."

"Really? You're a friend of his?" Ted sounds surprised and more cautious now.

Castiel wants nothing more than to ease his apprehension, so he replies, "We went to college together."

"B went to college? That explains a lot." Ted laughs openly, warm and clear. "Guess that means you get the full package. See ya' soon."

Ted hangs up.

With dead air and static the only sonnet on the line, Castiel pushes the end button.

A breeze creeps through the open window, without Meg and Balthazar smoking there's no reason for it to be open. He stands on wobbly legs, shutting the window and beginning the process of cleaning the small space. He vacuums the tiny oval rug, getting every last bit of stubborn lint and hair. He polishes the coffee table with wood wax, wiping first and wrinkling his nose at the inch deep dust. He straightens out the couch cushions, arranges the magazines on the side table, and carts every dirty dish into the sink. Unfortunately, there's no washing machine in Meg's shitty apartment and he doesn't even attempt washing the piled up cutlery in fifteen minutes.

The cleaning works by occupying his frenzied mind, but it's over in ten minutes.

Now, without a distraction, his thoughts run rampant.

A prostitute is about to come over to help him through his dry spell. A male prostitute, that is. If his parents could see him now. He's heard enough of his father's sermons over the years to know their opinion on gay people. He wonders, will this experiment makes him gay in their eyes? Would they'd condemn and disown him as a son for what he's already done and implied? The things he’s thought about in the span of the last ten minutes: such perversion would surely earn him disappointment from both of them.

"What am I doing?" He asks aloud.

When Castiel was nine his mother had a friend named Guy that was homosexual. When contemplating his own sexuality, he often reminisced on his mother's reaction to Guy coming out.

She had been disgusted, calling him out in front of the entire congregation, saying, "My heart is broken. I can't even begin to describe the pain and hurt I feel right now. My friend is choosing to go against God and he knows it's wrong. Still, he's chosen to advocate such a hideous lifestyle. I'm going to continue to pray for him: We should hate the sin not the sinner. But know that I will not be seen with my once cherished friend, Guy."

At the time he hadn't known what Guy had done wrong. He didn’t understand.

Now, as a self-proclaimed agnostic, he has no reason to use what was said against Guy as truth. If he wants to contemplate his sexuality, he can do it without the fear of being condemned by his peers or judged by an omnipotent tyrant. With Daphne, he had a sinking suspicion that he was different, not particularly enjoy the sexual encounter. Lots of people were attractive and Castiel didn't sleep with any of them. But with the prostitute that was coming over, just his voice had sent a wave of arousal pulsating in Castiel’s lower stomach. So really, was that wrong?

There's a rumbling from above, a car pulling into the driveway. The noise is loud and makes him flinch.

Not a minute passes before there's a knock on the door.

Castiel walks over and hesitates, then opens the door.

Castiel has to pinch his leg, discreetly, upon seeing the prostitute—afraid he's fallen into a dream. He has prominent cheekbones and a well-defined jawline and nose. Sharp angles and plump lips. He has the kind of face that stops people in their tracks. And those lips, so captivating. Castiel can barely look away from them, they are so pretty. And, similar to Daphne, his eyes are green. Where hers were dull and muddy, his are bright and glittering deep enough to hold a universe. Still, the modelesque looks can’t distract from the obvious fact that Ted can't be an adult.

He’s young. Holy shit, he's really young. He's broad-shouldered and taller than Castiel but he's still noticeable young. Too young. That’s really the only word Castiel can comprehend when he looks at him: young.

This cannot be Ted, with the creamy voice and sensual words.

 

 

  

Castiel asks, "May I help you?"

"I think we had an appointment?" Same voice. He gets a sour taste in his mouth.

Castiel can barely contain his distaste, "There's been some misunderstanding."

He can practically see Balthazar and Meg sitting in the corner of the room, laughing and pointing at him. No sympathy for getting himself into this situation. How the fuck had Balthazar thought Castiel would have sex with this child? Maybe he had thought Castiel wouldn't go through with it. Maybe this was a prank or some fucked up test he's failing. Seeing the boy's full lips pulled into a gorgeous smile makes him almost forget noticing his age. It’s a really good look on the kid. He tries to snap himself out of it. This child is a goddamn distraction—and not in a legal way. He can't let this happen.

The boy keeps smiling with beautiful teeth. "Really? I remember your sexy voice. Don't you remember mine?"

This is instant karma for even calling the number. He crosses his arms. "How old are you?"

"Age is just a number, sunshine," Ted winks and slowly saunters in. He pushes past Castiel and starts undressing. He unbuttons his shirt, letting it hang low enough to show off his delicate collarbone. Castiel tries not to think about those sparkling green eyes looking up at him through long lashes, with his pink lips half-parted, panting. This prostitute was a siren to Castiel, tempting him without even trying.

Castiel shuts the door behind them, grabbing the boy's wrist to stop him, "I'm not doing this. You can't be even legal."

"Messed up morals there, buddy. Prostitution is okay, but me being young is a step too far?"

"You being underage is a step too far," Castiel emphasizes underage with a harsh glare. Not appreciating Ted’s bluntness.

An adult having sex with a minor is definitely more wrong than two consenting grown-ups paying for sex. It's unethical. If Castiel did this he would be taking advantage of this kid. This poor kid. He was probably forced into prostitution and doesn't know any better. And if people found out—the thought makes him shiver — he could be arrested for statutory rape and would never be allowed to teach, much less be around children, ever again. He might even be put on some registry or watch list. Imagine Castiel moving into a neighborhood, going over to the house next door to inform them that he was a child predator. Prostitution is a misdemeanor but added that the prostitute is a minor would change the charge to a felony.

"I have my ID right here," The prostitute pulls out a driver's license, wagging it around teasingly. "It says I'm nineteen."

Castiel snorted, taking in the boyish charms and faunlet face, "I bet you haven't graduated high school yet."

The boy shrugs, pulling his arm from Castiel's grasp. Pocketing his license, "If you don't want to do this, fine by me. No hard feelings."

"Maybe if you were my age, but you're not," Castiel blurts.

Was it really a good idea to admit he was attracted to the prostitute? Too late now. Ted doesn't know what he's doing. He couldn’t know. He is so young. Selling his body to older men and Castiel is, unknowingly, contributing to it. And he knows that most of the victimized children who face prostitution are exploited. Many underage prostitutes are kids who have been brutally neglected by their parents. Facing a traumatic home life where they sell themselves to secure basic essentials like food and water. And the other half are sex slaves. Castiel can hardly look at the kid without feeling sick. And to top it all off, he just revealed that he finds the boy handsome. He hates himself. But the kid must know he's attractive, why else would he be so confident? It isn’t like Castiel is telling him something he doesn’t know. Castiel isn't a predator for noticing beauty. Right?

"Okay," The kid says after a moment. "Just because you backed out doesn't mean Zar gets to cheat me."

He finds himself nodding, "I owe you that at least. Really I should be calling the police. That would be the responsible thing to do."

"And how would you explain to them why you were hiring me?" Ted asks, not bothered by Castiel words.

Obviously, he wouldn't be calling the police, "You should leave. I'm not trying to kick you out, but—"

Ted gives him one last look, rearranging his clothes and walking to the door, "I hope that you find what you're looking for."

Then Castiel is left alone again.   

He slumps against the couch, weary and tired to the bone after the tantalizing interaction. Castiel was just tempted by the universe to make a horrible decision and now that he's alone in the quietness of the apartment he starts to doubt his determination. Goddammit, he is considering recalling Ted. Not actually, he has no intention of ever making any move on anyone underage. And the prostitute probably doesn't like him enough to come back. That's still not a good enough reason, he tells himself.

By the time Meg comes home, Castiel has just about managed to stop pacing, though he is profoundly questioning his rationality now.

She takes one look at him, the crazed look in his eye and the cleanness of the room, and smirks.

"Have a good time, Clarence?"

He groans into his hands, giving her his iciest glare, "Not now, Meg."


	2. Snapshots

"Hello?"

"Hi, is Mr. Shurley there?"

"I'm him."

"Mr. Shurley, the school board has come to a decision regarding your applying to our school. After a heavy discussion, we've decided that you would be a welcome addition to our staff. Starting immediately, as when school returns in August, you'll be one of our resident English teachers."

"Oh, thank you! Really, thank you for this amazing opportunity."

"Thank you for considering our kids. Most new graduates look over us."

"I'm glad I was different."

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

The pavement is wet and Castiel's shoes have no grip, so he slides clumsily as the rain falls. Ominous thunderclouds pour buckets of rain as a christening to the new school year. He drives Meg's car, a loan until he can afford his own, to the school. Thankfully Meg's car comes with an umbrella: an embarrassing thing that is designed to look like a watermelon. Shakily pulling out his ID as he passes the gate, he tries not to fidget too much. The guard gives him an odd glance, scanning his license and staff credentials. There will be a metal detector at the entrance, so he resolved to toss his tin full of mints into the middle armrest and just roll with the deterioration of his breath during the school day.

The parking lot is full of students milling around; mostly males with dark clothes and odd facial piercings.

It wasn’t until Castiel was a sophomore in community college that he realized that education was something he could find himself excelling in. Until that point he had been taking very generic courses, settling into the English branch with bored confidence. But now, as he approached the school, that confidence has evaporated. Castiel isn’t sure if he is cut out for this. The thought of teaching a bunch of rowdy delinquent high schoolers is intimidating, to say the least. All the students he passes look exactly like the type of bully that used to browbeat Castiel when he was in academia.

He walks past them, grip tightening on his watermelon umbrella and briefcase, sensing their indignant glares on the back of his neck.

His first period is going to be horrible. Poetry. The class that most kids took because they were looking for an easy A—all ages could take the class including freshmen and seniors. He can already imagine the Hell that combination would create. Thankfully, most of the students on his itinerary are juniors, meaning he lucked out of an all-freshman class for his morning wake up. He only hopes none of these boys are in his class, the ones that frighten him. He would never gain respect from his students if he cowers in front of them like an idiot. Most of the poetry he's required to teach is by Shakespeare, Keats, Frost, and Poe. And before it starts, it's already his least favorite class. He can already see how watching Romeo and Juliet will be laborious in such an assorted group.

He finally reaches the pavilion over the school's entrance, shaking off the rain on his umbrella and collapsing it. He passes through the metal detector easily, giving the guard his umbrella with a jittery smile. The man gives it back to him without comment, sending him on his way through the tangle of hallways. American literature was his second period, which when he looked at the handout, requires him to show the students a look at structure and themes in the works of American writers from pre-colonial times such as Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Wheatley, and Morrison. He hates these writers with a passion. He hates reading and examining their text. But it was part of his curriculum.

Stepping into his classroom, Castiel hangs his umbrella from a hook at the door and begins unpacking his work.  

There were notes for his other classes spilling onto the floor, he grunts as he bends down to pick them up. His black binder full of lesson plans remains faithfully in the briefcase. He needs to study the first-period lesson plan before his students came in from homeroom. Thankfully, he didn't host any of the classes for said brief ten minutes that the school lovingly dubbed “homeroom”, but he suspects that would change if he lasted a year.

His third period is his free, meaning he can leave and get lunch if he wants or sit in on another class. The prior sounds more appealing, obviously. Maybe Meg can even meet with him for lunch.

His fourth period, after the lunch break, was British literature which covered Keats, Browning, Wilde, and Joyce. It mostly is about understanding the works in context to when they were written and Castiel has no problem with this. The class will be mostly sophomores and that is also fine. Second-year students are majorly more mature than their younger counterparts, but less obnoxious than juniors or seniors. Castiel imagines himself enjoying that class.

He spends a few moments writing on the whiteboard, putting his name in cursive lettering above the printed date and class. The marker squeals like a pig as he glided it over the surface, barely any color coming out of it. He glares at the dried out pen and tosses it in the trash, no other markers to take its place. There isn't an eraser, either. He'll have to buy more supplies after his first paycheck comes in, money out of his own pocket but he needs them for his lesson. Sorting through his blinder, he halts at today's date.

There is a poem he needs to print off, as the current lesson plan calls for a poem a day. He looks up at the clock: twenty minutes till class starts. There is a printer, he believes, in the teachers' lounge down the west wing. He looks at the prepicked poem and hums—not the worst choice for the first day. He picks up his copy and walks towards the room, sixty paces he counts from his door to the staff room. There are two teachers in the room, talking to each other but sparing him no mind. He quickly scans and prints the page, thirty copies seem adequate.

He listens in to the other teacher's conversation, pretending to sort the papers.

"—be in prison?"

"Definitely. I'm just glad—" So soft Castiel can barely make the conversation out, missing words. "—isn't in my class."

The teachers are both women, Castiel observes. One with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail and the other with blond choppy hair and bangs. They turn suddenly, shifting away from each other with eyes focusing on Castiel. Obviously eavesdropping, he blushes at being caught. Gathering his copies and speed walking out of the room. The hallway is still empty, the only sound being his own footfalls echoing from the walls.

Making his way back to the room, he pauses in front of his ajar door. Looking inside, he’s startled to see a student walking around inside. It's a girl, the first female student he’s seen since entering the school. When she notices him, she smiles and dips her head in acknowledgment. She is pleasant looking, definitely not what he expects when he thinks of a delinquent. She has short nails, shiny lip gloss, and a graphic t-shirt that reads “Magic Can't Be Kept In the Closet”. Her hair, which is short enough to curl under her chin, is such a vibrant natural red that Castiel has to blink.

"Hey, Mr. Shurley," She says and there is a sparkle in her eye. "I'm Charlie, your humble TA. Here to help you set up or whatever."

"Call me Castiel. Are you a college undergrad?" Castiel asks. He had been required to assist a few teachers during his time at college. That was probably the worst year of his life: unpaid internships should be illegal.

She shakes her head, "Volunteer, actually. I'm still a student, just not yours. It's part of my program."

"Program?" He still isn't familiar with how the school works regarding rehabilitation. "Would you explain? It wasn't in orientation."

Charlie smiles at him, teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She sits at one of the desks and begins, "Well most of the students here aren't permanent students. We were sent here by our previous schools because of behavioral issues or repeated bad grades or some other lame excuse. For those that aren't too far gone, the half-backs as we've been so glamorously branded, we get to participate in a program that notoriously restores us to dutiful pupils that are graciously allowed to go back to our old schools. I'm on step three right now, AKA volunteering."

"Is that why most of you are here? Fighting and bad grades?" He wonders abruptly if this is like asking a prisoner why they are in jail: is it taboo? Some kind of forbidden question? Charlie's reassuring expression calms him, open and friendly.

"Mostly. I know that we half-backs have pretty trivial crimes, not like the severe ones that the other students do. It's a pretty broad spectrum. There are a few students here who have beaten up their teachers, set their school on fire, and got caught doing drugs and sexual stuff on school property. But some just have learning disabilities. They get sent here because their school didn't want to deal with them." That last part was said harshly. She then adds, half-heartedly, "I'm here because I hacked into the school's online grade books."

Castiel listens and is intrigued by the process, "What about the other students? The ones who are here permanently."

She grimaces a little at that, "I hope you don't have any of them in the classes I'm here for. They've all got a reputation for not caring about anything. They don't have any goals to strive towards, just thrown here since they're required to go to school but no one else wants them. They've gone through the program too many times or didn't get the opportunity. It's kind of sad but it's hard to sympathize when they're all jerks and bullies."

A bell went off, making him jump and lose his balance. He hears the students filling out into the halls, a low rumble of laughter and teenage voices.

Their conversation cut short, Castiel hands Charlie the copies, and states, "I'll need you to pass those out in a minute. And you can sit up front with me."

She nods, taking them and pulling a loose chair next to his desk. They wait as loud giggling students invade the room. The first one to enter is a boy with shaggy brown hair—green eyes catching Castiel's with a small smile. Freshman, Castiel guesses. Walking in right behind him are a few older looking students, most of them wearing all black with greasy hair and pimple covered faces. Maybe sophomores. Then a girl, shorter than the shaggy-haired boy, with busted knuckles and a dozen piercings. Due to her height, another freshman. Castiel focuses on organizing the rest of his class notes, nearly getting whiplash as the warning bell rings.

Several other students wander in before the class starts, just as acne riddled and hormone driven as the rest. Castiel waits for everyone to settle in their seats, leaning against the wall and looking at his copy of the poem. Rereading isn't a bad idea, the last time he had really studied the work was back in college. Everyone is loud, laughing and leaning towards each other with bright grins on their faces. It's the first time some of them are seeing each other since May.

Clapping his hands together to get the classes attention, Castiel is a little discouraged when they ignore him.

"Excuse me. If you could kindly give me your attention." He tries to speak over them, gaining the notice of the first row who blink owlishly at him then immediately turn away.

He clears his throat multiple times, clapping his hands, and raising his voice. Eventually, it's five minutes into the class and no one has given him the time of day. He feels sick to his stomach. How he thought he could do this, stand up here and instantly have their respect, he didn't know. His biggest fear of losing control of the class is playing out right in front of him. What if they start becoming the offenders he was anticipating; running around the room, yelling at each other, and getting into fights? What does he have to do to get them to listen to him? In fact, why should they even care about his authority? Who was Castiel to demand their recognition and regard when he literally had no clue what he was even doing? Perhaps he could curl under his deck and shakily call the office for the principal to come to control the class.

Charlie comes up behind him, whispering, "You'll need to be more confident, Mr. Shurley."

She's right. Charlie is one hundred percent right. Castiel got his degree, he's qualified to teach these children, he's been the student before and now he's the adult. He tries to remember what being in their shoes felt like. When he was in high school, and the positions were flipped, how would he have reluctantly been impressed by his teachers? What did his favorite teachers always do? His eyes shoot open—Bingo!

With newfound resolve, Castiel yells angrily, "If you don't shut the hell up you're all getting detentions."

The whole room goes eerily silent and suddenly fifteen eyes are on him.

A wide grin on her face, Charlie bumps him inconspicuously, "Good work, teach."

He resumes, averting his eyes each time they catch on one of the students, "Hello. I'm Castiel Shurley, and I'll be your new English teacher."

"Obviously," someone comments from the back, making the class burst into snickers.

He keeps the stern facade. Cursing. That's what made him like teachers when he was in high school. It made them instantly cool. Like they weren't afraid of being punished. Like they were above the law. Crossing his arms over his chest, he sauntered over to the front of his desk, leaning back on it casually. He tries to keep his cool long enough to trick them into thinking he deserves their respect. How long can he keep this up? Meg always says he’s naturally a dork.

Pulling a fake smirk on his lips, Castiel speaks. "I'm going to call the attendance. When I say your name raise your hand and say here or present, you can also tell me if there's a nickname you'd rather me call you by. Like me for example, I'd rather be called Castiel. For one, Mr. Shurley is too stuffy for someone that just graduated. And second, I'd like to think of us as all as equals, maybe even friends as the year proceeds. So if I get the privilege to call you by your first name, you may do the same to me."

He reaches for the clipboard and pencil on his desk, "First is Josephine Barnes."

"Here," A blonde girl says, "And it's Josy."

Castiel nods, changing her name next to the attendance. "Okay, next is Andrew Gallagher?"

"Present and uh, Andy. If you don't mind."

"Eileen Leahy?" Castiel looks up when no one responds.

He's about to mark down an absence when a brown haired girl, the same one that has busted knuckles and more metal than ears, perks up and says, "I'm here. Sorry, I can't read your lips from back here."

He doesn't suggest she move to the front, instead, he moves on to the next name. "Fergus MacLeod?"

"It's Crowley, actually."

"Alright," Castiel didn't bother asking. He continues down the list. "Aidan Rogers?"

"Here."

"Bela Talbot?"

"Here."

A few more names go by in the same fashion and he finally gets to the last two:

"Dean Winchester?" When no one answers, Castiel looks up. “It's bold to ditch class on the first day.”

"He's coming." The young boy with floppy brown hair, who was the first to arrive to class, says meekly.

"Okay," Castiel marks down tardy instead of absent. His eyes find the freshmen again. "And lastly Samuel Winchester. I imagine you're Dean's brother?"

"Yes." Samuel blushes under the attention. "And it's, um, Sam."

Instead of jumping directly into the activity, Castiel goes around the room, calling out names and trying to figure out faces. It's a fun little exercise, everyone laughs hard when he mistakes Scott for Gordon. But he doesn't let that deter him. He mixes up Bela and Ava as well, but unlike the tittering laughter that had broken out before, both girls glare at each other. Obviously, fifteen new faces are going to be a tad difficult to remember, and he has three classes full of fifteen strangers he will be required to know, so just mixing up four people is great in his book.

Next, he reads off the syllabus. The students will only be required to bring a pencil to his class. Since they're a school of alternatives, they aren't assigned books to be take home. Stealing books is a problem, according to the principal. They will be expected to show up on time, but will only be disciplined if they're tardy five days in a row—AKA an entire school week. If they miss more than three weeks of class they will automatically fail. And, Castiel stresses this one, no drugs, alcohol, or guns are allowed on the premises.

He mentions the poetry they'll be examining, moving into the topic of class without pausing. Some of the boys groan at Shakespeare's name, but Castiel bets it's just overcompensating masculinity and not an actual commentary on the works of Shakespeare—Castiel would groan, too, but that's because he's in the "Shakespeare is overrated" club. There are a few overarching questions the lesson plan want them to think about, and will probably be on the classes final exam: How do we define a poem? Who determines what is poetry and what isn’t? Why does poetry matter? To what extent can poetry affect our world? Castiel watches, amused, as each question gets glassy-eyed detachment from the students. Obviously, he has his work cut out for him.

Right as he's ready to get into the actual meat of the lecture, the door bangs open, "Sorry I'm late! I was just—"

Castiel can feel physically feel his stomach dropping.

Ted Nugent stands perfectly pretty, with rain-wet hair and a clinging shirt, right in the doorway.

"Take a seat," Castiel says shakily when his brain catches up."Mr. Winchester, I presume?"

"Yeah," Dean says, stepping awkwardly into the classroom. "Sorry, I'm late. Here's my slip."

Their fingers brush.

Goosebumps spiral up Castiel's arm.

They stare at each other for a beat too long. But Castiel wasn’t expecting to see Ted. . . Dean again, ever—so he can’t really be held responsible for his reaction. He has that feeling in his chest, a mixture of anxiety and confusion, like a weight is slowing compressing his body without mercy. His heart is hammering in his throat and ears, going so fast Castiel is sure it could compete with a dragon fly’s wings (which he knows are pretty fast, after looking it up for the daily crossword). He doesn’t really know why, but his toes are tingling too? Like the circulation is disturbed. Well, on second thought, it certainly isn’t disturbed above his knees.

"We were just getting ready to discuss the daily poem." Castiel goes to stand behind his desk.

Charlie, thankfully, starts passing out the sheets of paper. Castiel watches with feigned disinterest as Dean goes to sit directly behind his brother.

"Does anyone volunteers to read?" When nobody raises their hand, which is exactly what he expected since high school students aren't exactly the volunteering type, Castiel glances back to his attendance sheet and calls the first one he sees. "Sam Winchester. Think you can handle a few sonnets?"

Dean Winchester interjects instantly, "I'll read it."

The first words Dean has directly solely to Castiel: I'll read it. And they're only spoken because Dean wants to take his brother's place. Is that some kind of “volunteering as tribute” type of declaration? Or is it more simple than that? Why is Dean volunteering to read? Can Sam not read? Castiel stares at Dean, curiously, but doesn't meet his beautiful peridot eyes. He hasn't been blind to the way Dean is carefully avoiding any semblance of noticing him. It feels deliberate. The way his eyes glide over Castiel without any recognition. It's like he's fighting to remain as impartial as possible. And, while that's probably the best course of action, Castiel can't help but feel. . . looked over.

He remembers when his mother wouldn't meet his eyes. When he first denounced the church, yelling until his throat went hot and scratchy. She had been so disappointed, not speaking to him for days and even going to the extreme of not looking into his eyes. She still had trouble meeting his gaze. It's one of the more infuriating things. So when someone avoids eye contact, Castiel immediately notices —his mother's pride becoming a pet peeve that extends to everyone in his life.

Castiel clears his throat, "Go ahead, then."

Dean does his own throat clear and starts.

Castiel has to sit as he listens. He’s noticed Dean's voice before when it was press breathily against his ear. And again, the first time he heard it uninterrupted by the phones static. Dean's voice is like honey. It's so beautifully charming. So now, as he reads one of literatures finest, Dean sounds remarkable. He sounds powerful. He sounds important. Dean Winchester is unbelievably attractive, something Castiel never wanted to acknowledge or face again, but this moment is proving that more difficult than Castiel expected.

He still hasn't processed the situation—Dean being in his class. When he had suggested that Dean was still in high school, he hadn't really thought about the boy going to school or being one of Castiel's pupils. Ted Nugent was a daydream, a sick yet solely out-of-reach fantasy. Now, Castiel was coming face to face with all his perversions. Was this God's wrath finally catching up with Castiel's sins?

The way Dean's finger trails across the paper, his breaths between each line, his lazy sprawl in his desk, and his wet t-shirt! Castiel is hyper-aware of everything Dean is doing. It's driving him insane. His hands clench beneath his own desk, the urge to walk over to Dean and touch his plump lips is overwhelming. But the shock of the situation is finally catching up to him and he couldn't stand if he wanted too. His knees are like jello and his feet are cemented to the tiled floor. His breath catches when Dean unwaveringly continues.

He realizes he's not the only one caught under Dean's spell. Dean actually has the attention of everyone in the room. His own brother is staring at with something akin to hero worship. Castiel knows Dean is mesmerizing—all the girls, a few guys, in the class are proving that with their dopey lovesick grins — but he also knows it's different for kids the same age as Dean to find him attractive and for Castiel too. For one thing, it is grossly unethical to exploit his position of authority and even sexualizing Dean is doing him an injustice in respect. Secondly, Dean surely must be underage.

But these are simply thoughts. . . he's not acting on them so is he really wrong? The guilt is making him think: yes. Everything feels like a big debate with his inner self. He's disgusted by his own thoughts: Dean is an underage, male, student and Castiel is still lusting after him. He'll need to ask Dean to stay behind after class to apologize to him and ask—no, beg him not to mention their previous interactions with anyone. If it gets out that Castiel was going to hire a prostitute, a very male and very underage prostitute to boot, Castiel's life is ruined. Excluding his parent's reaction, would Meg even still want to be his friend? He'd lose his job, his place in society, and will definitely go to jail.

A few seconds pass after Dean is finished reading. Everyone lost in the world Dean's voice created. Charlie is sat off to the side, chewing on a pencil eraser, staring at Dean in shock. A few of the other students, the ones that have shifted uncomfortably when Dean entered the room, are also starring with that same puzzled expression—like they're amazed Dean can even read, much less coherently enough to bring the poem alive.

"Very good, Mr. Winchester," Castiel says, breaking the atmosphere Dean's reading created. He turned his focus to the other students, "Okay, just to make sure you were all paying attention: How does it feel to be addressed directly as the reader? Does it make the poem feel more intimate?"

Bela raises her hand without more prompting, speaking before Castiel can call on her, "The poem can feel more intimate?"

The class chortles and Castiel feels his mouth quirk up involuntarily. "Ms. Talbot, if you could be serious?"

"Oh," She smirks, leaning back and sending Dean a flirty glance. "I'm deadly serious."

The rest of the class passes in the same fashion. Apparently, thanks to Dean's marvelous rendition of Litany, everyone in the class remains under his spell. Dean doesn't really return any of Castiel's intense stares, instead, he avoids all eye contact and rather prominently sprints out of the room as the bell rings. He'll have to have a talk with Dean tomorrow, then. Still, he tries not to take it personally, packing up his first-period lecturing notes and collecting all the class work— the students were to write a free-form poem introducing themselves. He didn't assign homework since it was the first day back to school, so he spends the last couple of minutes recollecting the way Dean's mouth formed around all those appreciative words.

Charlie hangs behind as the rest of the class departs.

She says, "I can't believe you got Dean Winchester to read a poem in front of the entire class."

"Why?" He asks, fingers clenched together.

"He's infamous around here. Apparently, the dude went to juvie because he beat up the people that ran the group home he was sent to," She shakes her head. "And he's got no chance for a redemption arc. Since it's his senior year they aren't even trying to rehabilitate him. I heard the only reason he hasn't dropped out yet is because of his brother. He wants to take care of him, make sure he's not bullied or something."

And when she finally leaves the classroom, Castiel thinks about Dean's situation.

Did Dean beat up someone? Was he in juvie? He's a senior? Castiel bites his lip. Do they know he's a prostitute, too? Dean is a simple victim to the horrible rumor mill of high school, no matter if what Charlie told him is true or not.

He suddenly remembers how inticing Dean looked stepping into the classroom.

“No,” He says to himself.

As an English major, Castiel has studied many forms of literature. He still remembers being assigned to read horrible text like Lolita, which had been rigorously glamorized and the entire time the class was making vulgar comments towards their older professor. He had been disgusted with his peers for being so impartial about the experience Lotia went through: she was sexually abused by a predator with authority. And his professor didn't discourage their advances. Now he was worse.

Castiel was just like Guy, a misfit his parents would disown. He needs to not surrender to the appeal. His mother tried to explain to Guy once that these so-called sins can turn into obsessions if they aren't dealt with properly. He remembers in Sunday school, where the grown-ups would throw the kids so they could have some peace and quiet, learning a tactic they used to not succumb to sensualizing yourself and resisting the temptation. You picture yourself recognizing the bait before putting it down and walking away from it. You imagine this experience in as much detail as you can to simulate the real thing. For example, most of the kids in the class had been "tempted" by candy and soda. The teacher had explained if one is trying to discontinue gorging chocolates and sugary drinks they should imagine holding their favorite kind in their hand. Picture smelling it, touching it, and then putting it down.

He couldn't recollect much from the class otherwise, the teacher had a weird mole above her mouth and was ornamented with the most monstrous breasts you could imagine. She suffered from serious back problems because of them but insisted that she couldn't get reduction surgery because God made her that way. She still has them, he supposes. Her son had been nice, though. Now that Castiel is thinking about it, the way he liked her son might've been more than friendly affection. He remembers them playing tag in the church parking lot, always wanting to be with Inias and always chasing him. He flinches at the memory.

Sighing, he tries to picture Dean.

And it's instantly a horrible idea.

The beautiful tinge of green in his eyes. The flawlessly sculptured face. The full lips.

Picturing Dean Winchester has the opposite effect because now, all he wants to do is press his lips right onto Dean's sloping cupid bow and wrap his fingers around Dean's golden freckled neck to caress his Adam's apple. Castiel wants to invade Dean's hot mouth with his tongue, twisting them together and fucking gently into the heat exactly as he'd do with Dean's other opening. Castiel wants to run his fingers through Dean's sandy blonde hair, tug it and cascade his fingertips down his spine before squeezing his ass and yanking them crotch-to-crotch.

He comes out of his wild daydream when his second-period students start piling in.

"Shit," He whispers brokenly. This is a serious problem.

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

"Why is this a problem?" Meg asks, leaning back on the couch.

"For one, he's my student." Castiel begins counting off the curated list he'd been mentally reciting to keep his thoughts pure: "He's also underage. He's male. And he's more tempting than the serpent was to Eve?"

"Alright," Meg holds up her pointer finger, "One, he's most likely legal if he's a senior."

"But—" He starts.

"Shush," She interrupts, holding up a second finger. "Two, who the fuck cares if he's a guy?"

"Well—"

"And finally," She holds up a third finger, "If he's so tempting, bend him over your desk and have your wicked way with him."

"I don't want you to try and convince me to have intercourse with him. I came to you for advice on how to resist his lure." Castiel rests his face in his hands. "Of course, I don't know what I expected coming to the biggest horndog I've ever met, excluding Balthazar. . . Which is likely why you two are so compatible, you both have no morals. Which is great in some settings, but is horrible when I need a virtuous friend that will talk me down from this illegal ledge."

"You only start speaking all fancy when you're upset," Meg comments, reaching forward to grab his hand. "Listen, Cas, if you swing that way, that's great. And I'm not going to judge you like I'm better than you. I'm the least qualified person to do that since I'm keen for some scissor sandwiches every once in a while. Being gay, or bi, or anything else—it's normal. Okay?"

"It's not you or Balthazar I'm worried about," Castiel says softly.

Meg nods in complete understanding, "It's your parents."

"I've spent my entire life being told that I can tell them anything and they'll still love me, but is that just another lie to add on top of the pile?" Castiel's chin quivers, rubbing the space between his eyebrows and down the bridge of his nose. "I'm still coming to terms with my sexuality as it is. I know I like men, and even that is difficult to say out loud. But what if they find out, Meg? What if they could already tell? What if they'll disown me?"

"You could spend a lifetime obsessing over their reactions," She says, "But you're independent now, so who gives a fuck whether they accept you or not? Your parents don't control your life anymore. They haven't ever since you told them you don't believe in their God—that was so badass, Castiel, but then it was like you retreated more than you grew. And I know you still, even subconsciously, care about their opinions. But, really, you shouldn't base your life on their happiness. Okay?"

Castiel looks down at the messenger bag full of poems his first class wrote, he wonders absently what Dean's says. Squeezing the fabric in his palms, he glances back up at Meg. "I know you're right. It's just hard to give up twenty-odd years of indoctrination."

"You don't think Zar and I are going to burn eternally in Hell, right?" She questions.

"No," Castiel chuckles. "In the end, I still don't believe in that. But I do believe in the condemning power of my parents."

"So, it really comes down to them," Meg pats his shoulder, standing up and bracing herself on her knees. "I don't know how to help you with that Castiel. I faced a different kind of pressure from my parent. I can't tell you how to get over a mental blockage. But I do know that the first step into having a more healthy outlook, is by being yourself. If you want to make out with guys, do it. Maybe not with your students. . . even I know it's not that easy. But don't suppress yourself, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel half-heartedly concedes, opening his mouth to say more when his phone started ringing.

"Who's calling?" Meg asks.

"Speak of the devil," Castiel says, looking down at his father's caller ID before muting. "It's been weeks, you'd think they'd catch on."

"They want you to call them every day like a good little boy," Meg smirks. And the serious atmosphere evaporates—which Castiel is sort of grateful for. At least his parents are good for something.

"I need to start grading." Castiel pulls out his papers.

"Already becoming so teacherly," Meg roughs up his hair, fingernails scraping his scalp.

"Soon I'll be sporting Lularoe and cruising around in a Subaru Outback," Castiel jokes.

"Pizza sound okay for dinner tonight, Mr. Giles?" She asks innocently.

"Oh, I'm not Giles," Castiel grumbles, "I'd like to think I'm more Mrs. Calendar."

"Dead with outdated hair?" Meg tilts her head.

"Shut up," Castiel turns away, hiding his appreciative smile. If he was previously worried about how Meg would think of him, he is glad she proved him wrong. Honestly, it is nice to have friends that stick loyally beside him. Now, hopefully, Balthazar is just as accepting—and he should be considering he set them up in the first place. Damn, he never really thought about Balthazar setting him up with a high schooler. Surely, it was a mistake. Otherwise, Castiel can’t imagine being able to see his friend in the same light. But isn't he being a hypocrite and judging his friend in the exact same way he feared would happen to him? Is it different because Castiel was clueless to Dean's high school career? He can't keep thinking about this or he'll get sick.

He double clicks his pen and gets down to business. It’s his first time grading papers as a teacher, which is a big part of the job description, so this is a very momentous occasion. Too bad the only company he has is Meg and she’s too busy flirting over the phone with the receptionist at the pizza place. It’s a tradition for her to make passes at the girl, at this point. The first time she called them, Meg said, “Just like this pizza, my tongue will also go straight to your thighs.” It dissolved into an all-out flirting war by this point, aided by puns and giggling girlish laughter. He’d complain, but they get discounted pizza.

Rubbing his forehead, he refocuses on the poems. A lot of the girl's writing is lengthy, detailing extremely unimportant details Castiel definitely didn't ask about. This was an assignment to get to know the kids: not to know what color their mother's vagina was when she gave birth to them. The boy’s definitely put less care into the assignment. There are a couple of one-liners and the shortest is by Crowley, who he believes is Fergus, which is simply: I just want to be loved. It automatically gets an A+, and Castiel doesn’t care if that’s unfair. When he finally gets to Dean’s he is not surprised to see it’s among the more quick ones.

_I'm Dean,_

_I'm actually nineteen._

_My lips are sealed_

_and thoughts concealed._

_Don't worry, Castiel._

_We have a deal._

_Call me. (421-555-9791)_

Castiel re-reads it a few times. He exhales a small amused gust of air from his nose at the rhyming.

Only a couple seconds later—his ear is pressed against a ringing phone.

"Hello?"

"You didn't have to give me your number," Castiel twiddles his finger around his belt loop. "I still have from last time."

Dean's line is quiet for a few moments, then, "I figured you'd have thrown it out by now."

"I should have," Castiel admits.

"I'm glad you didn't," Dean says demurely. "It gives me a better idea on how to act here."

"Dean," Castiel squeezes his eyes closed, "I called because I want to set a few things straight: I was wrong before, when I first called you and when I didn't immediately send you away. And now I'm facing the consciences of my actions. So now I'm asking you to please refrain from telling anyone about our first meeting. I know that's not exactly fair to you, either. So, if you must, I'd at least like to get a warning before you report me."

Dean laughs lightly, "Dude, you're pretty melodramatic, aren't you?"

"What?" Castiel's eyes shoot open.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Dean reassures. "Besides, what would you have done wrong? You were going to have sex with another consenting adult, who you didn't know was going to be in your class. Really, they can't fire you. They might remove me from your class, but that's all."

"Are you really nineteen?" Castiel finds himself asking.

"Yup," Dean replies. "I failed freshman year."

"If they find out I was going to pay you for sex. . ." Castiel starts.

"You weren't, your buddy was," Dean says flippantly. "Besides, I was going to give you a freebie."

"So we really weren't doing anything illegal?" It feels weird to explain everything away like that, but Castiel is desperate.

"Castiel, you're scotch free," Dean hums.

He mentally corrects; _scot-free_. 

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel exhales.

"It's fine, man," Dean sighs. "Anyway, there's no way I'd ever want to be transferred out of your class. The only reason I haven't dropped out is because of my brother, so it'd be useless to stay in school if I wasn't even in the same class as him."

Castiel listens intently. "Dean, if you ever want to talk, you can call or text me."

"Really, teach?" Dean says almost mischievously. It's a complete turn around from how shy he acted today in class.

"Yes, Dean. I'll always answer," Castiel remains sincere.

"What about the three-day rule?"

Castiel blushes, happy Dean couldn’t see him, "I called you the first time less than ten minutes after finding out about you, I think we can skip the formal pretenses."

That's true, Mr. Shurley," Dean flirts.

“Well, I should go,” Castiel says awkwardly. “It’s been a pleasure to talk with you.”

“See you tomorrow in class?” Dean asks.

“Of course,” Castiel rubs the back of his neck. “If you can make it on time.”

Dean laughs silvery,  “Bye, Mr. Shurley.”

The phone clicks and Castiel just stares down at it. Why did that feel so intimate?

He snaps out of it when Meg clears her throat, smirking at him.

Castiel flips her off.

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

"Goodmorning, Mr. Shurley," A pretty redheaded woman greets, catching him before he can escape into his classroom—the principal had talked him into car duty. . . waiting in the freezing morning air to open doors for kids being dropped off. It was a dash of awakeness on top of his already second cup of coffee—She looks insanely familiar, and he only recognizes her as one of the gossiping ladies from the teacher's lounge in the brief moment before he returns her sentiment.

Castiel tips his head, "I don't believe I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Ms.?"

"I'm Anna," She smiles with her whole face. "After you skipped out on lunch with last week, I'm surprised you haven't been shunned."

"Oh, I didn't know I was invited," Castiel rubs the back of his neck, already uncomfortable.

She plays absentmindedly with her hair, "Of course, you are. And that invitation is open-ended. So I expect you to be in the teacher's lounge at lunch today, or I'll volunteer you for car duty every day of the winter. That's a serious threat, by the way!"

Castiel didn't know if she was joking, but he laughs along with her, "I guess I'll see you then, Anna."

"I better go tell Tessa that the hot guy didn't blow me off," Anna laughs, waving at him before walking off with a bounce to her step.

Entering his classroom, bewildered by the weirdly awkward conversation, Castiel grimaces at the sight of Charlie spinning around in his desk chair. He rubs his eyes wearily, feeling the crusted sleep flake off, some eyelashes too. Normally he’d be fine with her getting here early, but today he didn't really have the time or patience to play glorified babysitter. He needs to organize his notes, pick the daily poem, and figure out what the fuck he was supposed to be doing today. . . all before homeroom was over. Glancing at the analog clock, squinting at the big hand and smaller hand, he only had ten minutes.

"Why are you in here so early, Charlie?" Castiel asks, setting his bag down on the counter and rifling through it. "Don't you have homeroom?"

"Well, technically, this is my homeroom," Charlie says, looking up from her screen. "I just check in at the office instead of you taking my attendance."

Castiel pulls out his lesson planner, flipping through the dense binder, "Is that part of your program?"

"Yes-indeedy," Charlie stands up, pocketing her phone, "I'm just here to help you prep for your first period. Oh, and good morning, by the way. You look a little strung out, are you okay, Mr. Shurley?"

"I've had a particularly stressful morning. The old lady who lives above my apartment shut off our hot water, I stood in the cold morning air for thirty minutes almost acquiring frostbite, and I just had an increasingly uncomfortable conversation with a female co-worker," Castiel runs a hand through his hair, handing over a random poem. "Can you go run off twenty copies? My PIN number for the printer is on the attached sticky note."

"Am I allowed in the teacher's lounge?" Charlie takes the sheet of paper, hesitant.

Castiel barely pays attention, already sorting through the assignments he spent two hours grading last night, "There's a printer in the library."

"Oh," She nodded. "That'll take me at least ten minutes to walk down there and back, and that's not including how long it'll take to print off twenty copies."

"Then I guess you should stop talking and start walking," Castiel dismisses her.

Opening up a fresh pack of dry erase markers he bought, he organizes them by color on the board’s little shelf (he managed to find some in the back of a file cabinet in the teacher's lounge during his free period yesterday—his own bank account remaining unscathed for one more week). Making sure to re-write his name with the freshly opened markers, the silky consistency of the ink is entirely satisfying. The marker smell is familiar, like a punch of adolescence to his face: like toxic chemicals that cause cancer and scraped knees during recess. He should probably stop before someone comes in and thinks he’s trying to get high off the fumes. He recaps the marker and goes back to organizing his first-period notes.

Whatever poem he gave to Charlie, a quick glance to see what’s missing confirms the suspect to be To My Wife (which is one of those sad poems that he hates reading as they make him cry), he definitely won’t be allowing Dean to read it. Not only would that be counterintuitive to everyone else's learning, but it would be distracting as well. And he’s made a pact with himself not to become distracted by the kid again.

Of course, it's not that simple though, because when students start piling into the room: Dean isn't among them. Even Charlie, who he suspected wouldn't be back for at least fifteen minutes, breezes into the room before him. She passes out the poems, smiling and lingering on some of the female student desks. Finally, she comes back up to the front and gives him a thumbs up. If Castiel didn't know what to look for, he might've missed the subtle sweat on her neck. She definitely raced the clock, that's for certain. Castiel spares Sam a few looks, gauging to see if the freshman is nervous or worried for his absent brother. But the kid just sits at his desk, twirling a fidget spinner with a small smile on his face.

Why is Dean enduringly late? Is there something he has to do before class?  

"Does anyone know the rhyme scheme?" Castiel asks after Aiden is finished reading—when no one answers, he tells them: "It's ABAB."

Obviously, they aren't retaining anything—he's pretty sure he saw Crowley pick his nose. So he writes it on the board: using the red marker for A and the blue marker for B. He parallels the rhyming words to each corresponding letter, then looks back at the class expectingly. Ava burps. Sighing, Castiel erases the words and points to the one person who appears to be paying attention, "Sam, did you notice anything extraordinary about the poem?"

"Oh, uh," Sam blushes from the tips of his ears to the bottom of his jaw. "The flower metaphors—"

"Sorry I'm late, teach," Dean throws open the door, a tardy slip between his fingers. "I had to break in a few janitor closets."

The classroom burst out into chaos and laughs. Castiel crosses his arms, “Break into janitor closets?”

“It was a joke,” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Like, when people say they hafta break in the bed on their wedding night. It’s not as fun when I explain it.”

“An idiom?” Castiel asks excitedly.

“Uh,” Dean looks abashed to be put on the spot. “I dunno.”

Castiel smiles at the rest of the class, “Sit down, Mr. Winchester. I shall be relating your idiom to our daily poem.”

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

It felt strange: talking absentmindedly about a depressing poem, focusing completely on Dean chewing on his pencil. Honestly, to Castiel, everything about Dean is arousing—so, him displaying a bad habit is just as attractive. A second later he singles in on his lips. They’re so incredibly pretty, just like the rest of him, and yet they still seem all-male thanks to the faint shadow of stubble surrounding them. Castiel knows with certainty now that he’s not heterosexual, but it still sends a little zing of adrenaline through him to be so attracted to Dean, who is clearly a male. He drones on about poetry whilst staring at the finest piece of poetry he’s ever seen—how sappy is that?

The bell rings before he realizes what’s going on.

Raising his voice to add over the rustling sounds of backpacks being packed up and binders closing, he says, “—And remember to think about idioms! I’ll be quizzing you!"

The students groan but it feels natural, like a regular student-teacher exchange: maybe he’s getting better at this whole authority thing?

Whilst walking to the teacher's lounge for lunch, he’s stopped by the principal.

"Hello Castiel," She catches him by the shoulder, a relaxed smile on her face. "Would you mind chaperoning lunch detention today?"

Would he mind? On one hand, he'll get out of his obligation of eating in the teacher's lounge with Anna and her other gossiping teacher friends. On the other hand, would he be respected enough to watch after delinquents and make them obey him? The way the principal is looking at him though, smile diming and eyes gliding into a glossy lifelessness, it seems like she didn't really expect him to debate over it. He forces a smile on his own face, "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"Good answer, Mr. Shurley," She pats his shoulder, walking away without another glance.

Castiel is only a little surprised to see only Dean sitting in lunch detention.

“Dean?” Castiel shuts the door behind him. “Are you the only one here?"

Dean looks up from his phone, a smile settling onto his lips, "I guess."

"What'd you do?" Castiel glowers back.

"I was late to my second period."

"Are you late to all your classes?" Castiel crosses his arms.

Slipping his phone into his back pocket, Dean smirks, "You didn't think you were special, did you?"

Castiel flushes a little but keeps his resolve, "How about we get this over with."

"Get what over with? All I have to do is sit here and eat." Dean pulls out a large bag of M&M's. "And all you have to do is make sure I showed up and that I don't skip out halfway through."

"I'm getting the feeling this isn't your first lunch detention," Castiel states.

Dean grins and Castiel instantly feels weak-kneed. 

His smile is so beautiful. It's boyish and roguish—Dean's entire face transformed when he smiled.  

"You're not wrong."

Castiel snaps out of his thoughts, "Huh?"

Dean laughs and rolls his eyes, "For a teacher, you sure zone out a lot."

"When have I zoned out before?" Castiel asks, vexed.

Dean grins again. Castiel has to look away so he won't be sucked in. "You were totally bullshitting about the daily poem in class today. It was convincing. But I could tell you were just rambling while thinking about something else. What  _were_  you thinking about, anyway?"

Castiel feels called out because Dean was absolutely right. And the kicker is that Castiel was fantasizing about Dean's mouth the entire time. He's officially "zoned out" twice today over those lips—he certainly can't tell Dean that. So, he panics and says the first thing that pops out of his mouth, "Just thinking about the game." 

"You watch football?" Dean raises an eyebrow.

Shit. Why did he say that? Meg's going to laugh so hard when he tells her about this.

"No," He says, frigid.

"Okay." Dean bites his lip and fights a smirk. "So, baseball?"

Castiel has to force himself to answer, "I don't like sports."

Dean snorts and pops an M&M into his mouth. "You're a fucking weirdo, Mr. Shurley."

"Yes," Castiel agrees and resists the urge to facepalm himself.

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

During his fourth period, he's only a little discouraged when he overhears some of the murmurings from his students.

"—look at that ass, he's totally queer."

"I heard he turned down, Ms, Milton."

Automatically, Castiel clenches his hand around his marker. "There's nothing wrong with being gay."

Castiel turning back around to finish writing on the board. That seems to shut them up.

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

Charlie is typing away at her phone, per usual, when he stumbles in. Her T-shirt reads "Pott-head" today—which he's sure is against dress code, but he's not going to be the one to report her.

“How’s it going, teach?” Charlie asks politely when he fails to initiate normal conversation.

"Thankfully, I've been able to avoid Anna," Castiel says without thinking, it takes a few beats for him to feel awkward about it since Charlie is a student and probably shouldn't be hearing him vent about a fellow teacher. "I mean, I haven't been intentionally avoiding her. It's just that we haven't seen each other since last week. I'm sure Ms. Milton is a very nice teacher—"

"What's wrong with her?"

Already backed into a wall, he answers, "She's a little too forward."

Charlie laughs, "Is she the co-worker that you had an awkward conversation with?"

Castiel sighs, "You remember me saying that?"

"Duh," Charlie slips her phone into her backpack. "You were in a mood last Thursday: You made me run to the library. I haven't run since middle school. Well, that's a lie. I had to sprint to the bathroom at Comic-Con, but that's only because I stood in line to ask a question and I held my bladder for like, an hour. If I hadn't run, I might've had an accident. But that doesn't mean I'm used to it. I had to drink from the water fountain near the gym and that water tastes like ass."

"I'm sorry about that," Castiel says, looking down awkwardly.

"I mean, it's fine," She shrugs. "That's kinda what I'm here for, Mr. Shurley. I totally could do without the running, though. But assign me tasks. Not that I'm bored when you lecture, It's just—this class is kinda for dopes. Or freshmen. And I'm neither of those. So, if you need me to go anywhere during class, I'm up for it. Seriously."

Castiel over at the daily poem (Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, a pretty famous one for a simple morning exercise but Castiel is too wired to manually pick one) and slips it out of its laminated sleeve. Handing it over to a smiling Charlie, he watches as her face dims. "Well, I need you to run these off. So technically I'm asking you to run again."

She drops her head back, exasperated. "And here I thought we here getting somewhere."

"I don't need you to go to hurry back," Castiel looks up at the clock: twenty-til. "I actually got here on time, so you can take your time."

Charlie stands up, brushing off her pants. "I'll be back on the hour, then."

He does a small pop quiz when the students walk in, making them write out the definition of an idiom. From the looks of it, half of them actually wrote something. He’s counting that as a win.

Bela reads the poem today, stumbling over a few words but still getting the message across. Castiel asks his normal probing questions, "Can anyone spot some alliteration?" And no one responds per usual, so he answers for them, "The poem is filled with the stuff!” He writes examples on the board behind him. Meg had criticized his marker fetish, saying they were obsolete in most classrooms by now. He didn’t reply.

It's time for them to split into groups and write poems: the lesson today is about collaborating. And, like all the cool teacher from his own high school, Castiel lets them pick their own parters—which is automatically a shit-show with Crowley picking up his binder and chucking it at Bela to get her attention. Clapping his hands, he scowls at them with his stern teacher eyebrows he's been practicing in the mirror at home. He'll have to assign partners, apparently. But really, did he expect delinquents to behave like normal students?

"Josy and Bela," Castiel points to the two desks near the back.

They groan but move there together.

"Andy and Max."

"Crowley and Krissy."

"Sam and Eileen."

He does the rest, frowning when he comes up short: Dean's left alone.

Clearing his throat, he decides quickly, "Dean and Charlie."

Charlie gives him the biggest  _I hate you_  face imaginable but scoots over so Dean can sit next to her.

"So, what do you want to write about?" Charlie asks politely.

Dean shrugs, "I don't care."

And then they fall into silence. Castiel sits behind his desk and listens to the low chattering. It actually sounds productive. He tries to focus on grading—but the taciturnity from the pair beside him is ironically loud.

Not five minutes later, Castiel hears Dean asks, “Have you ever played the penis game?”

Charlie’s face goes funny, “Do I seem like I would’ve?”

“No,” Dean smirks at her.

Castiel exhales and writes 75% at the top of a paper in bold red ink. He reflects,  _at least they're talking_. Penises might not be the intellectual conversation topic he expected students to focus on when collaborating, but he supposes it's better than nothing. Besides, Castiel isn't a pedant. As long as they're getting their work done, who cares if they're chatting in between?

"Maybe we should relate this back to romantic collaborations?" Charlie says a few moments later.

"Like relationships?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Charlie says and scribbles on their paper.

Dean responds evenly, "Or we could stick with the prompt?"

"Okay, but I don't see why we can't do both," Charlie says harsher.

"Read off the prompt and we'll go back and forth," Dean suggests.

Charlie clears her throat. "Comfort is. . ." 

"Something I can't remember."

"A privilege," Charlie says.

Dean looks down, "When your mom holds your hand and tells you she'll be with you forever."

"Security," Charlie says softly.

"See, it's not all romantic," Dean says jokingly to break the low mood. "Unless you're into Oedipus complexes."

Charlie snorts. "I guess you're right."

They start chatting steadily after that, joking around and leaning into each other's spaces. Castiel tries to focus solely on grading, but a few stray buzzwords always garner his attention: like when they start talking about orgasms. He unintentionally perks up when he hears the tail end of Dean's sentence.

"—make America great, amirite?"

"Those assholes probably think the female orgasm is a myth," Charlie laughs.

Castiel looks down a little. Until Meg set him straight he thought the exact same thing. And Daphne never pushed vaginal sex—she wanted to remain a virgin until marriage and thought a dozen blow jobs would suffice. If he were a braver man, he might suggest that ignorance is the reason and not because they're intentionally assholes—but he suspects Charlie wouldn't appreciate his candor.

"Are you two okay?" Castiel asks instead, “The prompt isn't too arduous, is it?”

"If it were life it would be, like, straight-white-male levels of difficulty," Charlie says, scribbling something down.

“So not that difficult at all?” Castiel asks with a nervous smile—thank God Meg's a feminist or else he'd be clueless about gender politics.

“Especially not with the power of God and anime on our side,” Charlie grins and bounces her brows.

“AKA outdated memes?” Dean interrupts with his own smile. Castiel has no idea what they're talking about, but he's still incredibly content to watch them banter (it reminds him of Meg and Balthazar arguing). Dean turns to Castiel a second later, that trademark smile at full force. It's a miracle Castiel's sitting down, or otherwise, his legs would give out underneath him. "Can we turn in what we have? I think we're done."

"Of course," Castiel says, voice low. He holds out his hand and takes the papers from Dean. "I'll grade it right now."

Charlie says, "What should we do?"

"I don't have anything for you to do at the moment," Castiel says to her. "And Dean can either go back to his desk or remain up here—whatever you do, try not to make too much noise."

"I'll stay up here," Dean meets his gaze and parts his lips. "It's probably better to be a teacher's pet."

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

When Castiel walks into the classroom, he's a little surprised to not see Charlie waiting for him. He has to turn on the lights, boot up the computer, and wipe down all the desks by himself. He didn't really realize how much she did until he's straightening out all the papers on the desk and laying out the English books. He'll have to thank her more. 

She skids into the room ten minutes later, "I'm here!"

Castiel squints, "Why're you late? I was about to call the office. Were you skipping?"

"Nah, I was distracting your mortal enemy," She leans against the desk, panting.

Her T-shirt has a bunch of words today, in this script-y text and bold lettering like a lightning bolt: "Weatherwax in the streets, Ogg in the sheets". Castiel blinks at it but goes on with their conversation. Honestly, after last week’s, he's chosen not to judge the redhead on her fashion. Charlie's a great person, even if she is a supposed marijuana user and sex-freak (that is what today's T-shirt is implying, right? He'll have to ask Meg).

"My mortal enemy?" Castiel frowns.

"Ms. Milton," Charlie says, going to sit in her usual chair. "And don't worry, it's no skin off my back."

"What did you do?" He's a little concerned.

"Don't worry. I just talked to her so she wouldn't come over before homeroom," Charlie raises her hands in mock surrender. "That's what you wanted right, I didn't cramp your style or anything? Cause I thought I was catching what you were pitching—you aren't into. . . that. Right?"

Castiel clears his throat, "You're not wrong. She's not my type."

Charlie let's out a breath, "Great. That means I can call dibs."

"She's a teacher," He says slowly.

"Let me have this," Charlie brushes him off, staring out the window dreamily. "And she totally seemed into me! I think it's a match made in heaven. Two redheads against the world. We're a straight man's fantasy come to life, but just for each other. And I think she was into it. Either that or she's just got a flirty personality. It's not like I've ever had her class, I'm not into art that much, so I couldn't tell. What do you think?"

"I think it'd be unprofessional for her to try anything."

She scoffs, "Of course. I'm talking about after I go back to my regular high school."

"That'd still be morally wrong," Castiel says, looking away.

Charlie raises her eyebrow, "Don't act like you're any better."

His mouth runs dry, "Excuse me?"

"I bet all teachers have had a crush on one of their students at some point, consciously or unconsciously. It's just human nature to find people intriguing, even if they're more or less mature than you." Charlie laughs, resting her chin in her palm. "Besides, as long as it's after they turn eighteen and have graduated—who cares?"

He inwardly sighs with relief. So, she doesn't know? It just seems like she's making broad statements that aren't targeted at him. Hopefully, that's the case. Charlie still has that blissed-out expression on her face so she must be daydreaming about Anna, but within seconds she snaps back to reality with mild panic and a ridged back.

"What?" He asks.

"I forgot about the daily poem," She says mournfully.

Honestly, so did he. So he digs around in his suitcase and hands her another random one.

"Hurry along," He says, adding on a quick, "And thank you. For all you do."

She actually looks touched. "Aw. That's sweet."

"I just wanted you to know that it was appreciated," Castiel says.

Charlie starts to leave but lingers in the doorway, turning back she says, "And hey, I just want to let you know, I'd be happy to be partnered with Dean anytime. He isn't some scary asshole. We swapped numbers yesterday and he's actually a cool dude. I mean, he's team Kirk, think's Eccleston was the best Doctor, and think's Pratt is the best Chris—but they can't  _all_  be winners."

"I have no idea what any of those pop culture references mean," Castiel replies. "But I'll keep the rest in mind."  

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

The next morning, Dean text him as soon as he walks into his classroom.

7:46 AM:  _gonna be L8 2day. don't wait up. :P_

Castiel rereads the message and crafts up a sarcastic response.

7:52 AM:  _Why am I not surprised?_

Dean texts back instantly.

7:53 AM:  _cuz you think about me enough to figure out my patterns?_

Castiel flushes and furiously types out a reply.

7:55 AM:  _More like I'm your teacher and it's my job._

Dean just sends back a winking emoji.

"So, how is it going with Anna?" Castiel sets down his phone and asks Charlie to distract himself.

Charlie sighs, "She's not into me."

 _What a shocker_ , Castiel thinks sarcastically, then says, "So, she set you straight?"

"I saw her get picked up by her partner yesterday," Charlie shakes her head. "Guess she's always been taken."

Castiel's nose crinkles. "She wasn't hitting on me?"

"Guess you misinterpreted too," Charlie responds. "Besides, I like someone else now. You know Dean?"

Castiel's stomach clenches, "He's your new crush?"

Charlie laughs loudly, "No! I'm all-grade lesbian, dude. It's his cousin. Dean introduced us a few days ago. We've been hanging out and I'm totally into her."

"Dean's cousin?" Castiel's honestly never thought about Dean having family other than his dad and brother. "Does she go here?"

"She graduated last year," Charlie says. "Jo's great, though. Her mom owns this bar, and they live above it in a duplex like some 90s movie cliché. You ever been to Harvelles?"

Castiel bites his lip, "The name is familiar. I don't know."

"It's on Lexington—" Is all she says before Castiel blanks out.

Dean's family lives in the red light district? It makes his stomach churn uneasily. Do Sam and his dad live there, too? Or just their extended family? Castiel's heard of people living on Lexington, but they're actually living on the street and are homeless. All the other buildings are condemned, crack-houses, or seedy bars that only stay open thanks to prostitutes hooking up in the bathrooms. . . is that the kind of bar Dean's family owns? Dean  _was_  a prostitute, anyway. Castiel shouldn't judge.

 

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

During lunch detention, Castiel can't stop thinking about Dean's family situation.

"I heard Charlie's lusting over your cousin," Castiel tries to broach the topic.

Dean laughs a full-bodied laugh, "Dude, I wish I could've recorded them meeting. It was hilarious. Charlie stared at Jo for a solid minute straight and literally drooled!"

"Beauty runs in the family, then?" Castiel asks without thinking. Dean's head whips around to stare at him. The tips of his ears immediately start burning. Fuck, it's the football situation all over again. Trying to rectify himself, he starts to mumble a half-baked excuse, "I mean . . . because . . . I'm sorry. That was extremely inappropriate and—"

"It's fine," Dean interrupts, looking at him unwaveringly. "And actually, we're not blood-related." 

"Oh," Castiel says. "I'm sorry I assumed. . ."

"Don't be sorry. I like that you don't hold back around me," Dean replies. "It makes everything feel more real."

"Feel more real?" Castiel echos, almost getting lost in Dean's eyes.

"Our friendship," Dean clarifies. 

Castiel feels fluttering in his stomach at the assessment. Now, all he wants to do is stare fondly at Dean and be a complete goober. How easily is he going to give up on wondering about Dean's family situation? He knows Jo isn't his blood relative, but that doesn't mean she is less important to him. Castiel would sooner consider Meg and Balthazar his family than his actual parents, at this point. So, without any regret, Castiel scraps those thoughts—which leaves him pretty one-track minded about another certain subject.

He's emboldened enough to ask, "How do you not get distracted by your own reflection?"

Dean blushes, biting his lip, "I could ask you the same thing."

"I'm a cloudless sky and you're lightning in a bottle, Dean," Castiel breaths out the penillion without thinking, unable to look away from Dean's searching eyes, "You're sun-kissed and glorious—with golden skin, peridot eyes, and lips parted like a deliciously sliced pear. I'm dull and azure like the cloudless sky. Comparing us is completely useless."

“I like the way you speak," Dean says, "It’s interesting and all professorial-like. Like you're always talking in poetry.”

“Yes, well, I like your freckles.”

Dean blows out a small laugh, lips slick from steadfast wetting. “Did you know you were the first person I purposefully tried to charge for sex?

"Really?" It is impromptu, but Castiel is curious enough to accept the drastic subject change.

"It was a spur of the moment thing. Balthazar saw me and thought I was such a pathetic kid. He said he had the perfect person for my first client. Someone gentle and needing of guidance. And well, I’m sure you’ve heard the horror stories of being a prostitute. I’ve given blow jobs in back alleys before, guys get rough and say all kinds of degrading shit. In the end, they always threw money at me even though I never asked. . . like it didn't make them gay if they paid. It was a good system, I guess, but I always felt so dirty afterward. So, I jumped on Balthazar's offer. I knew I’d be giving up myself more completely than before, but he was offering something that seemed too good to be true.”

"I'm sorry you had to do that," Castiel reaches his hand out, fingers brushing lightly against Dean's. "And that those hypocrites treated you like that."

“Are you gay?” Dean swallows and asks curiously.

“Oh,” Castiel feels his eyes widen, “No. God, no. I mean—”

Dean looks amused, “Is it really that bad to be attracted to guys?”

“It’s just. . .” Castiel looks down. “I’ve never said it out loud.”

“Well, I’m bisexual,” Dean leans forward, looking up through his eyelashes.

He says it so easily. Dean Winchester knows exactly who and what he is—and at the ripe age of nineteen no less, when most teenagers can’t even choose what to wear or eat for breakfast. Castiel is on the wrong side of twenty-five and couldn’t be more confused about himself. Dean's easy going self-acceptance makes Castiel feel an intense mixture of envy and happiness. How did he get lucky enough to meet someone as extraordinary as Dean?

Castiel says just as much, "You are amazing, Dean."

"Don't think I didn't go through some shit getting to where I am today," Dean says, voice turning resentful. "I pretty much got kicked out when my dad found out. That's why I had to support myself. Plus, Sammy—the kid's living with dad all on his own. . . and I know how that goes. So I give most of my paychecks to the kid because it's not fair that he can't go on field trips or have extra milk with his lunch. He's a bean stock that shoots up a couple inches every night and our bastard of a dad won't give him enough money to buy extra milk, can you believe that?"

"Parents can be awful," Castiel can't relate to Dean’s specific struggles, but he knew that to be certain.

Dean laughs bitterly, "You're telling me. And when I got caught for stealing bread and peanut butter last year just to keep Sammy fed, dad let me rot in a group home until my eighteenth birthday. I can't imagine what Sam went through for those months. He still won't tell me."

Should he bring up the rumors? Maybe if he’s delicate? Castiel lowers his voice, making sure to look directly into Dean’s eyes when he asks, “I heard that you beat up your guardian at the group home, is that why you’re here?”

No, that was entirely too tactless. Dean’s facial expression says as much. Snorting, Dean leans back and says, “Fuck no. Is that what people are saying about me? No wonder all the little half-backs are avoiding me in the halls. Seriously, screw them. It’s like we’re segregated, Cas. You’re either capable of rehabilitation or you’re a pariah. And just because I’m not going back to jolly-happy-high school doesn’t mean I’m a troublemaker, okay? The worst things I’ve done is steal bread and try to sell my body: and I don’t regret either because they’re for Sammy. And that’s why I’m here, too.”

“You got sent to a school of delinquents for Sam?” Castiel is perplexed.

“That’s what I said,” Dean squares his jaw. “I’m sure you already know this, teach, but siblings of the offenders sometimes get sent to the school as well. Not because of some conspiracy, the school system doesn’t think trouble runs in the family or whatever. But because their parents are too lazy to take their kids to two separate schools. And when Sam got sent here, you bet your ass I followed him. And it’s not like I’m going back to school next year, I’m almost twenty. So, I’m lumped in with the pariahs."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry," Castiel says. "You're an incredible big brother."

"At least I got that going on for me," Dean sighs.


	3. Acceptance

"Mr. Winchester, this is your fifth tardy in a row," Castiel rubs his temples. "You're forcing my hand."

Dean walks closer to his desk, not breaking eye contact. "Are you going to punish me?"

The whole class froze at the blatant disrespect. Bated breath, they watch as if Dean and Castiel are a reality TV show. Castiel has never felt so confused. Is Dean really that upset that Castiel had called him out? Castiel isn't lying when he says Dean is forcing his hand—if he doesn't point it out someone could accuse him of favoritism. Why is Dean acting so defiant in front of all the other students like this?

And suddenly, Castiel understands. "I actually am, Dean. Does lunch detention sound good?"

Dean bites his lip, "It's a date."

A low sprinkle of snickers erupts from Dean's phrasing. But all Castiel can hear is his heart hammering in his ears.

"Make sure you show up on time."

"I'll be perfectly punctual, Pete."

Castiel makes sure to exhale loudly.

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

He detours past the teacher's lounge to wave at Anna—smirking only slightly at her leaning close enough to be pressed right up against another female teacher. How he could've missed Anna's obvious interest in the same sex is beyond him. He straightens the inseams of his khakis and makes his way to the lunch detention room. Dean's waiting for him per usual. 

"You are such a troublemaker, you know that?" Castiel says as he sits down, a smile involuntarily curling up on his lips.

Dean settles against his desk, ass leaning against the edge, looking down at him, "I like talking to you."

"So, you deliberately show up late to my class?" Castiel makes sure to put some disapproval into his tone. "That doesn't sound smart. That sounds like you were trying to rile me up."

Dean has postured himself directly between Castiel's spread legs, his hand reaches down to stroke Castiel's right knee, "This is the best time for us to be alone. You know that, right? We can't meet after school without looking suspicious. We can't have an honest discussion during class. And I hate talking over phone and text. It's so impersonal, Cas. But here—I can look at your face, gauge your reactions when I'm talking to you. And as much as I like talking to you, I like looking at you just the same."

Castiel swivels closer in his chair, "You could've at least miss someone else's class."

Dean smirks, other hand touching his left knee. "Would you prefer I skip Ms. Miltion's class?"

"I'd rather you not have gotten into trouble at all and came to my room as a student needing help on an assignment."

"Where's the fun in that?" Dean scoffs, breaking away to stand by the other end of the desk. "Besides, I'm not known for my eagerness to accept help. The principal would likely be a thousand times more skeptical of me if I came to you for help on poetry than being perpetually late."

Castiel stands with him, touching the small of his back, "Dean, you know you're incredible, right? You might not think this stuff is important, school and grades and education—but you have so much potential. You read poetry like it means something. You have everyone on the edge of their seats every time. You write amazing poems to every prompt I give. And I bet you have the same potential in every class."

Dean leans into his touch. "Even if I did, it doesn't mean anything."

"I just mean. . ." Castiel holds his breath, then answers, "People underestimate you. They see you as a punk kid that can't be reconditioned into their cookie cutter idea of normalcy. But I know you're incredible. I can see what you're capable of. And in whatever way you want to apply that, on schoolwork or other projects, know that I appreciate your skills and I support you one-hundred-percent."

"Y'know, you're making it really hard," Dean replies.

"Making what hard?" Castiel's eyebrows scrunch up.

"You're making it hard to not want to kiss you," Dean flushes as he says it, but keeps the determined glint in his eyes.

Castiel pauses, crimson as well, "You want to kiss me?"

"So much," Dean slithers their hands together, intertwining their fingers. "I was sure it was obvious."

"I'm pretty oblivious when it comes to that stuff." Castiel stares down at their held hands, then up at Dean's pretty pink face.

Dean moves closer, their noses touching, "You can back out if you want to. I wouldn't make you kiss me."

"Don't give me an out," Castiel says, reaching his free hand up to cup Dean's cheek. "Or I'll try to do the right thing."

His freckles look even more lovely up close. "You'll do the right thing by not making me the happiest I'll ever be?"

"Yes, but Dean—as much as I want to be a good person. . . I also want to be selfish for once," Castiel grits out, finally pressing their mouths together in one fatal combustion.

Castiel groans immediately, mostly in relief but also with combined hypersensitivity: it's his first kiss with a man and it's already ruined him. He curls his hand around Dean's jaw and just holds on. Dean doesn't wait to part his lips and put his tongue in Castiel's mouth—it's clumsy, wet, and sloppy— so incredibly sloppy, with spit swapping and tongues twisting, Castiel's mind goes blank to everything but the feeling of Dean exploring and probing his mouth. He only realizes his eyes are still open when Dean's own hand comes up to caress his cheek, grazing his fluttering eyelashes. Snapping them shut, Castiel falls deeper into the pulsating sweep of Dean's tongue.

They pull back a little, when the nose breathing becomes strained, lips parting with a soft smacking sound. But Dean only gulps for air, yanking Castiel back only after a few seconds. With eyes clenched shut, Castiel runs his hand from Dean's jaw to the back of his neck and finally pulls at the short hairs on the back of his head, pulling at Dean until the boy collapses into his lap (the chair creeks under them, obviously not made for this weight). With their bodies pressed together, Castiel tilts his head back and lets Dean follow—mouths attached more secure than velcro. Castiel jerks his hair back a little when Dean swipes his tongue brattily over the roof of Castiel's mouth, tickling him enough to break off the kiss. They just breathe together for a few seconds.

"I shouldn't have done that," Castiel whispers into Dean's mouth.

"Probably not, but it was the best damn kiss I've ever had," Dean murmurs back, "So I'm glad you did."

Foreheads pressed together, their breath labored, Castiel feels the trickling sensation of guilt pouring over him. And even then, he can't pull himself away. When he pops the bubble, what will happen? He'll have to be a responsible adult and go to the principal, or at least cut off all communication with Dean outside of the class. He pushes all these thoughts away, reveling in the minty puffs of air coming from Dean's parted lips. They sink into each other for minutes, just holding onto each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

 

 

The only thing to tear him out of the stagnation—his phone starts ringing in his pocket.

Picking up his phone on autopilot, "Hello?"

"Castiel? It's your father.”

Castiel winces. He let his guard down and actually answered a call from his parents. Meg would find this hilarious. He leans further away from a willful Dean, pressing his empty hand to his other ear so he can focus, "Hello, Chuck.”

“I've been trying to get ahold of you for months—I was about to come to that apartment of yours!"

“I'm sorry for not picking up. I've had a busy schedule. I was doing a lot of job interviews. I just started at my new teaching position. And then there was that date mother set up for me—"

"Yes, well, that's not why I'm calling," Chuck pauses, like he didn't want to say the next bit, "It's your mother."

"Mother? What's wrong with her?"

"Her lupus flared-up again."

Castiel squeezes his hand tightly around the phone, "Well, that's not a big deal, right? I mean, it's just inflammation."

"Her kidneys are failing and she's paralyzed from the waist down."

"What does that mean?"

"It's terminal, Castiel. They're giving her two weeks at the most."

He can feel Dean's stare burning into him like hot coals.

"Okay, when should I come down?" Castiel questions with a wobbly voice.

Chuck sighs over the line, "If you want to talk to her while she's still coherent, you'll need to be here in the next few days."

"I'll see you in a few hours," Castiel assures before hanging up, hand shaking as he slides his phone back into his pocket.

How is his mother dying? Was this instant retaliation from God for kissing Dean?

"What's wrong?" Dean's voice brings him out of his spiral.

Castiel's face remains blank. He can’t talk to Dean right now or he’ll say something he’ll regret. He can’t even look at him, really. So, he bites out a stern, "I've got to go."

"Huh?" Dean reaches out for him but Castiel moves away. Undeterred, Dean tries again, "Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong?" Castiel repeats, spitefully. "My mom's dead."

Dean's eyes widen, "Oh, I'm. . . I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Castiel laughs, a lump in his throat. "Really? That's nice. I'm sure she'd appreciate that. The guy I was just making out with is sad she's dead. Oh, she's not fully dead. Sorry about the confusion. No, she's just suffering quietly, bedridden, while I shack up with the one thing that'll damn me to Hell. She's dying as we speak, as we fornicate! I ignored her calls for weeks because I was too tangled up in this mess with you."

"Cas. . ." Dean looks hurt.

"No," Castiel looks away, "I've been ignoring my dying mother for weeks because—"

When Castiel cut himself off, Dean presses with a trembling lip. "What? Say it."

Castiel turns his hard gaze back onto Dean, "I need to go."

Before Dean can protest, Castiel grabs his messenger bag and hauls ass out of the classroom.

He sends Anna a quick text whilst running down the halls.

12:24 PM: _Had to leave early. Family emergency. Can you spend your free period watching my third?_

She replied almost immediately.

12:25 PM: _Of course! I'll tell Jody. Praying for you. (:_

He feels icky from the sentiment, not bothering to reply.

It's about a forty-minute drive from the school to his parent's house in Joliet. They own a modest two-story house in a smaller neighborhood, situated between a college and the most rural part of Illinois. Castiel remembers quite vividly how much his mother complained about the college kids, "They're like cockroaches, Castiel! They infiltrate and infest an area with their wickedness." Castiel drives past the college now, glancing at the few students he sees walking around outside: they're dressed in normal clothes, have earbuds in, and seem to be on a mission to get to class as fast as possible. Castiel rips his eyes away, one thought on his mind—they don't seem wicked.

The last time his mother had a serious flare-up, Castiel had been twelve. As an autoimmune disease, lupus targeted its own tissue and cells. During the flu season, his mother didn't get her yearly shot. She almost died. Castiel remembers the sweat curling over her brow, the smell of the anointing oil of the preachers coming in and out of her room, the low mumble of prayer heard from every churchgoer that showed up at their house in solidarity. Castiel's father claims those godly efforts are what healed Becky last time. Castiel knew it was more likely the overworked doctors that did the real miracle.

Twenty minutes out, Castiel allowed himself to think about it—he forgot himself and kissed Dean.

Guilt and shame come hand in hand at this point. Castiel can only feel them in together, and they're often so strong that he's overburdened like his head is being held under water. Being raised like he was, Castiel has perpetual guilt over almost everything even though he knows it's not sane. It manifests like little pinpricks, clinging onto whatever he's trying to focus on with permeance and no objectivity. And whilst they might be kissing cousins, they're also profoundly different. Castiel knows he's feeling more guilt when it's productive: this is what he's done wrong and this is how he can grow from it. It's more shame when everything feels so incredibly shattering: this is why he's wrong and why he's a horrible person.

Right now, he's a bottle of half-and-half. There were just silent, loaded topics you didn't bring up in his household whilst growing up: He remembers the first time he asked about sex. His dad had choked out an uncomfortable "all these things you're feeling, they're reserved for marriage" and "we don't want you ruining yourself, Castiel". He's so grateful he had Meg, who gave her first blow job entirely too young but was educated in things. Otherwise, he'd probably still be confused about all the workings of the body and puberty. Even now there are certain words he can't hear without cringing—masturbation being front and center. So really at this point, he's a pro at dealing with shame and guilt.

So it's a testament to his willpower that he can't cope with the massive plate of shame that's being served up for kissing Dean.

But surprisingly enough, he feels the _most_ guilt for how he yelled at Dean.

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

Arriving home, he spares a few words for his father at the door—it's brief and to the point, "She deteriorating quick, son." 

Castiel walks into his mother's room with low hopes.

She’s laying, swaddled like a baby, in a mountain of pillows and blankets.

He feels tears gathering in his eyes, but doesn’t let them fall. She opens her eyes as he comes closer, sending him a vague eyebrow raise. Even in her last days, Becky Rosen-Shurley knows how to completely knock someone off their feet and judge them. She doesn’t bother to speak, either. And Castiel would appreciate that any other day, but he had been betting on her usual hateful redirect to set him back on the normal straight and narrow. So, he does what any normal son would do, he provokes her into a reaction—nothing like coming out to your parent on their deathbed.

"Mom, I need your guidance," Castiel says quickly like ripping off a bandaid, already filled with self-hatred. "I—I've been, um, seeing this guy. And we kissed today. I pulled away and denounced him. Please, tell me I did the right thing. I need strength and you're my anchor."

But Becky doesn't scowl or condemn him. His mother, the most homophobic person he's ever known, just smiles faintly. She reaches up to cup his cheek and say her first words to him since he got here, “Go with your heart, angel.”

Those words feel eye-opening.

"Mom?" His eyes burn with tears.

"If this is the last thing I do, I don't want to die with my only child hating me," She whispers, thumb stroking his cheek.

Castiel feels the statement like a sucker punch, tears streaming freely. He tries again, "Mom, I'm gay. Do you understand that? I like men. And I, I really—I like Dean."

"I've always known," She drops her arm in exhaustion. "You're my little boy, and no matter what I'll always love you."

Castiel shakes his head. Why is her acceptance such a disappointment? He's been living his life according to her supposed righteous path for years, the most interesting thing he's ever done was smoking a goddamn cigarette. She is the reason he had such horrible self-hatred. And now she claims to have always supported him? It's all he’s ever wanted from his parents. He craved their unconditional love. But it feels cheap as some deathbed confession, even worse than his pseudo-coming out.

"Is this some hate the sin, love the sinner rhetoric?" Castiel watches her face crumble, which only make him feel even more guilty.

She turns away, "No, Castiel. I'm trying to make amends."

"Okay," He says, blowing out a shaky breath. Touching her hand to get her attention, he says, "I believe you. But mom, I can't exactly go with my heart on this one. I really hurt Dean. I said some things. . . things I regret. It's probably not even possible."

Becky blinks owlishly, "Are you saying someone wouldn't want my catch of a son?"

"No, I—" He smiles slightly.

"—Because I know for certain, that no one can resist the Shurley charm. And if your Dean is as half as smart as I was, he'll forgive you," She interrupts, the stern expression he recognizes looks odd on her extremely frail face. "Especially if you can grovel as good as your father. Now, I'm sure I can hold out on the whole dying business for a few more days. Go get your boyfriend."

Castiel stands, unsure, "I don't know if I should leave you like this."

"Please do. And if you’re not here when I finally croak, I’ll be thankful. I don't want anybody watching me die," She grumbles. "And deliver a letter for me while you're at it."

Castiel stares at her bedside table, where she gestures, incredibly confused. Sitting on the corner was a crisp white letter addressed: My friend, in life and death, Guy. If Castiel wasn't tearing up before, it’s like a dam broke when he saw that, "Should I deliver it in person? You have stamps on it."

"Just drop it in a blue box," She replies, flicking her hand in a half-hearted gesture. "I didn't lick the envelope, so if you want to proofread it with your fancy English degree, that might make me look less like an idiot."

"I'm sure he'll be grateful, either way," Castiel picks up the letter, looking down at her one last time, "I'm proud of you, mom."

Her chin wobbles, "Get out of here."

Castiel walks out of his mother's room with his head held high.

Then he remembers that he didn't know where Dean lives. All he knows is that Dean's extended family lives on Lexington, and he's surely not going there. There are thirty minutes until dismissal, and by the time he gets back to the school, it’ill already be too late. And, according to google maps, the closest post office is a ten-minute drive in the opposite direction. Maybe he could text Dean to meet him somewhere? Already pulling up Dean's number, he almost pulls his hair out when the phone flashes the low battery screen. Fuck, why didn't Meg’s car have a charger? Jumping back in the relic of automobile history, he turns the ignition and started driving.

He’ll just have to text Dean when he gets back home because he’s putting this damn letter in the blue box—it feels like some odd sense of closure to his mom accepting him and he needs to see it through immediately. Opening the envelope, he bites his lip and starts reading. Only a few lines in, he realizes it's basically a letter begging for forgiveness.

Folding the letter back up, he knows these words are only meant for Guy (even as reassuring as they might be).

Plus, he doesn't want tear tracks on the paper. 

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

Castiel calls Dean multiple times that weekend. But Dean doesn’t pick up. Castiel sends endless text but never gets replies. Eventually, a robotic woman answers the phone and tells him that the number he's calling is no longer in service. Texting get's the same result. Meg informs him, with a dark frown with pursed lips, that it means Dean blocked him. It makes his stomach feel like worms are wriggling around in it. He contemplates driving over to Harvelles on Lexington, but that seems a step too far into stalker territory. So, Castiel gives up with the thought that Dean will be at school the next Monday.

But Dean doesn't show up.

Castiel corners Sam after class.

Sam looks uncomfortable when he says, “Dean dropped out, Mr. Shurley.”

"What?" Castiel lets the word fall breathlessly from his lips.

Sam looks away, "Besides, after five lunch detentions a student automatically gets suspended. He wouldn't be here even if he was still enrolled."

Castiel is conflicted. Guilty mostly.

Walking outside of the school, he is even more upset to see Meg’s car with slitted tires and a popped hood—engine smoking. Whoever it was, they've also spraypainted QUEER on the back window. Staring at the word he feels tears brim at his eyes: why did this have to happen today, when he was already feeling vulnerable? Even his throat feels like it has the stereotypical lump in it. Clearing it, he stands frozen without much clue on what to do. The bell rang to go home but he's in a standstill with himself. This is the first time he's experienced homophobia like this.

With his parents, it was these little things that he tried not to take to heart. Just the words they said and preached against, it was never directed towards him but it was still hurtful. He'd been called a "gay-lord" and other slurs in school when he was younger (middle school seemed to be the worst). And it was pretty common if you were smaller than the other boys, being singled out like that to be picked on or bullied. He was lucky he had Meg in high school, she kept a lot of rummers off his "I don't like to date" back. But this, a student figured him out or made some wild assumption, and took time out of their day to destroy his car. They personally directed this at him with intent.

Someone comes to stand next to him, "Ah, shit."

Looking over he's a little startled to see Anna, "Oh, it's—it's fine. They chose a pretty weak insult. I've been told this word was reclaimed."

"Doesn't mean it still can't hurt," Anna says grimly, reaching into her shirt to pull out a neckless: it has two connected hearts, both with crossed vertical lines. Castiel blinks in confusion at it but quickly refocuses on her resuming voice. "If I give you the number for a local towing company, can I go inside and get Principal Mills? Will you be okay here by yourself?"

He realizes a few students are watching him. Wiping away the few stray tears, he nods. "Of course."

"Here you go," She hands him her calendar and schedule. "He's the third contact."

 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

 

He rides in a tow truck with Bobby Singer. It's a short drive, thank God. But it's still awkward as all Hell, albeit by Castiel's own making.

_Why yes, I am a queer, how did you know?_

But Mr. Singer delicately didn't bring up the defacement to the car. Instead, he turns up his music and asks Castiel to buckle in. 

Sitting around in the waiting area, he contemplates Dean’s dropping out a bit more.

Is it his fault? Did he drive Dean to drop out? He's known about Dean wanting to drop out for a week now, only staying in school for Sam. But did Castiel accelerate that decision? He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, nose permeating with the combined smell of grease and overpowering cherry-car-freshener. He's just about burned a hole in the wall clock by staring at it when the receptionist calls his name and tells him he can head around to back garage.

Stepping outside of the waiting area, he follows the painted arrows on the cracked asphalt. 

Everything slows down yet speeds up when he sees Dean beneath the hood.

It's all happening too fast for him to process—so he immediately turns on his heels and abandons Meg's car to the wolves. 

He didn't expect Dean to chase after him.

“Cas, wait,” Dean shouts from behind him. “I want to talk.”

“Then why didn’t you pick up my calls?” Castiel asks, turning around suddenly.

Dean skids to a stop, only a few inches between them. “You think it's that easy? Do you think I wouldn't be terrified? You haven’t given me any indication that you'd be happy to see me, that you’d want to talk to me seriously, that you’d want to be in a relationship with me . . . Castiel, you’re actually important and I’m nothing. So, I was putting off the conversation. But now, I want to explain.”

“Why? What changed your mind?”

“I can’t stand to see that disappointed expression on your face.”

Castiel feels tears build up in his eyes, “Dean, I can’t even begin to tell you what's wrong with what you said. You’re better than me, you know that? You’re confident with yourself. You know exactly what you believe in and you don’t allow others to influence you. I’m scum, Dean.”

"No, you're not," Dean replies.

"Yes, I am," Castiel stays steadfast. "And I'm sorry for how I talked to you on Friday. I was just lashing out, it's not something I usually do but I got scared because my mom is dying and. . . she's my best friend. I know that sounds idiotic—she was a homophobic bitch my whole life but I still love her more than anyone else, and it's hard not to when she was there for me in so many other ways. It's complicated, Dean. And I was feeling complicated things, so I lashed out and I hurt you and I deeply regret it."

"You think having complicated feelings about your parents is uncommon?" Dean laughs a little. "I think I have more mommy and daddy issues than anyone I know combined. So you don't have to apologize for that. Really, I want to say sorry."

"For what?" Castiel can't think of one single thing Dean did wrong.

"I'm sorry I didn't run after you," Dean blushes as he says it.

Castiel blushes in return, "Don't. It's probably for the best that we didn't talk. I was a loose cannon that could've said a number of hurtful things."

"Then I'm sorry I didn't pick up the phone," Dean reaches out to wipe about Castiel's tears.

Castiel presses into the touch, "I accept that one."

"Hey," Dean smiles a little, running his thumb along Castiel's cheek and jaw. "You're supposed to keep excusing my apologies until we run out of things to say. And we'll grapple for words and eventually one of us with lean in. That will get the other one with the program, and then we'll kiss. Like in the movies. And shitty TV shows."

"I've never seen a movie like that," Castiel's face remains flushed.

"Damn, you don't have Lifetime?"

Castiel shakes his head, "We don't have cable. Meg just downloads a bunch of stuff onto her USB during work."

"That's a tragedy," Dean declares, "There's this show I like, Dr. Sexy. Anyway, I bet you'd like it."

"Probably not," Castiel says with a small smile. "I hate all the soap operas Meg makes me watch."

"It's not a soap opera," Dean argues. "It's more like art—"

"What happened to us running out of words and kissing each other?" Castiel interrupts.

Dean gapes, "Keep saying stuff like that and I'll be speechless."

“Is that what my class taught you?” Castiel asks. “To be speechless?”

“Good thing I dropped out,” Dean says, still reeling.

Castiel rolls his eyes, exasperated, “I still can’t believe you did that.”

“You’re lucky I did,” Dean says.

“What?”

“I'm not your student anymore.” Dean watches as understanding passes over Castiel's face.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

And they're kissing—words overflowing. Similar to their last-first kiss, Dean takes control and pushes his tongue into Castiel’s mouth. It feels incredible. But Castiel doesn’t want to be passive this time, so he stretches his hands to envelop Dean’s face (touching his freckled cheeks and short side-burns and smooth jaw) and pushes back against the heat of Dean’s mouth with most of his strength. Like a snapping rubberband, Dean softens and moans and arches back.

Castiel suddenly has control. He knows Dean is an excellent kisser, it was obvious when they kissed back in the classroom how much experience the younger boy has over him. But this feels different, more electrifying and exhilarating, than last time: Castiel tilting his head to the side and Dean copying him seamlessly. It’s less sloppy and more austere. And it’s obviously more arousing for Dean, the evidence is pressed right up against Castiel’s hip.

Dean pulls him towards the black Impala sitting behind the garage.

Opening the back door, Castiel makes an embarrassing noise when Dean pushes him back onto the leather bench seat and settles on his lap. They reconnect their lips instantly, Dean doing nothing more than following the movements of Castiel’s mouth. Sitting on Castiel’s lap, Dean starts rocking back and forth to give him friction.

Castiel wonders how different this feels to Dean than when he kisses girls. See, the one experience Castiel has had was with Daphne and he’s all but repressed those memories, so every little touch Dean does feels new and exciting. Does Dean feel the same way? He’s bisexual, so he must be an expert in the best qualities of both men and women. Does he think women taste better? Does he like the rough stubble of another man? Does he like Castiel’s five o clock shadow? Castiel runs his hands down Dean’s back and grabs his ass. Does he like when both men and women grab his ass?

Is he expecting anal? Suddenly Castiel feels a little more nervous than before, so he pulls away and stares up at a heavy breathing, huge-eyed, frenzied Dean—And he can’t stop himself from smiling gently up at the image. Dean pants out a hushed, “Are you okay?”

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Castiel asks.

Dean scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, “Obviously.”

“Maybe we should wait,” Castiel suggests, running his hands back up Dean’s spine. “It’s a time-consuming effort and you’re a virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” Dean asserts. “I just haven’t tried anal with another person before.”

“And I even haven’t had vaginal sex before,” Castiel says. “We should wait until we’re more prepared. And have a bed.”

Dean sits up on his tighs, “Well, what do you want to do?”

“Have you ever. . .” Castiel swallows. “Have you heard of frottage?”

Dean’s eyes darken, “You want to rub our dicks together?”

“It’s the standard male to male sexual activity,” Castiel replies.

Dean obvious finds this sentence hilarious because he giggles so hard tears spring to his eyes. And, with a big smile on his face, he pops open his button and unzips his pants. Squirming them down his thighs, Castiel reaches forward and places his hands on Dean's exposed hipbones. Castiel yanks the jeans down to Dean's knees and helps him clumsily remove them, one leg at a time, but then their bodies are pressed back together and it's suddenly better.

Castiel waits in anticipation as Dean slowly drags down his briefs. They cling to the wet tip of his dickhead (whenever he got aroused is lost on Castiel)—they're pulled down so slowly that the first thing Castiel is aware of is Dean's thick pubic hair. Reaching forward, he scratches his fingers through the wiry hair and tugs gently. Dean seems astonished at the gesture, head tips back and hands grasped on his own thighs. Castiel doesn't have some pubic hair obsession, it's not something he actively thinks of when finding something to masturbate to. But Dean's bristle is dark, full, and truly sexy.

Then finally his actual penis is bared and Castiel sighs out an unknowingly held breath. It's uncircumcised, unlike Castiel—but otherwise, it's similar in length and girth. They'll probably fit together perfectly.

Castel, without any build up, pulls out his own penis and observes Dean eye him greedily

"You want to have oral sex, don't you?" Castiel asks carefully. 

"Not if you call it oral sex," Dean snorts.

Castiel ignores the sarcasm and says, "We'll have time for that later."

"Okay," Dean licks his lips and presses closer. "Then, I'll take dick rubbing for five thousand, Alex."

And Castiel can only describe the next ten minutes as the most deprived and dirty thing he's ever done—the drag of Dean against him, pre-cum dribbling everywhere and making the friction that much worse, and the little breathy moans Dean lets out—it's no surprise he comes first. And he's not even embarrassed about it, reaching down to finish Dean off with a few precise _tugs_. Dean cries out, lifting up off the bench with curled toes and a wrinkled nose. 

“You’re so lovely,” Castiel murmurs against his ear as they settle into each other.

Dean's so close that his lips graze Castiel's as he talks: Like the faint brush of a butterfly's wings as they brush his lips, hot puffs of hair accompanying them like thunder to the electric butterfly-wings-lightning. "Thank you, thank you—I'm here all week. Try the veal. Tip your waitress. And no encore, not even my teenage stamina can handle that."

"All week?" Castiel picks the words out, the rest jumbling together into a word-sandwich.

"It's just a phrase. An exaggeration. Uh." Dean stumbles.

"Another one of your idioms?" Castiel smirks.

"I, uh, I just meant, I'll be here as long as you want me."

"Always," Castiel tightens his arms around Dean's waist.

"I can do that," Dean relaxes."It is quite comfortable."

“Mmm,” Castiel hums, eyes heavy.

“Are you going to sleep?” Dean giggles lightly. “Way to be a typical guy.”

Castiel tries to stay awake. “Shush. Aren’t we supposed to be basking in each other's afterglow?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Dean asks. “Cosmo?”

“My ex-girlfriend,” Castiel replies honestly. “After she would almost peel my dick like a banana, as Meg would say, she’d make us cuddle.”

Dean’s laughs shake his entire body. “Then I guess we have to cuddle.”

“We don’t have to,” Castiel counters.

“No, but I want to.” Dean presses his face into Castiel neck and sighs. “Go to sleep, teach.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here are those spoiler-y type warnings:  
> Castiel experiences a lot of conflict regarding his pursuit of Dean—He thinks Dean is underage, but he's not, and the miscommunication causes him some grief. There is no underage sexual/romantic contact in this fic, but it is perceived that way by Castiel.  
> Additionally, they share one kiss whilst Dean is still Castiel student. It's not glossed over and Castiel's morals are clearly tested. But otherwise, everything intimate occurs after Dean has dropped out.  
> Be wary if any of this concerns you!
> 
> (If you want to message me any prompts or just talk, my twitter is [@ImpalaLostiel](https://twitter.com/ImpalaLostiel)—I might even tweet about future fics!)
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! I appreciate the feedback.


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